In the Echosphere
by giadysik
Summary: One-shots and deleted scenes from the (extremely AU) "Echo in the Memory" 'verse. For now, these will focus on Dean Ambrose and William Regal, but later I will also probably include Shield-related one-shots and the like. May be read as stand-alone. Ambrose/Regal
1. One Step Closer

A/N: So, this series is the expanded universe of "Echo in the Memory." It's just going to be cut scenes and one-shots. As I explained in "Echo," I wrote out several detailed scenes of Ambregal back story before realizing it wasn't necessary. Rather than just delete that stuff, I thought I'd post it in its own story in case anyone was interested.

**Note:** I completely rewrote most of the dialogue between Dean/Seth/Roman and Regal/Wade for "Echo," but I'm leaving the dialogue I originally wrote here. "Echo" is just a condensed version of this – which is my way of saying the Ambregal scenes I'll be posting here are the canon back story. Enjoy.

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**In the Echosphere  
I. One Step Closer **

"He died saving my life, you know," William said after a bit, studying his fingernails as they lay flat on the table. "Dean. Had a habit of doing that. Idiot boy."

He let the words hang in the air, heavy and damning: a judge's gavel banging down after a final sentence had been issued.

The fragile refuge they'd taken in humor collapsed under it, plunging the room into brooding silence.

William turned his hands over and balled them up into weak fists, remembering, as he did, Dean's large and oddly angular hands - how rough and strong they were.

How steady.

How one always managed to wind up splayed out or curled up _somewhere_ on William as they slept: the weight of that touch a comfort neither of them could admit they needed.

It was one of the things he missed the most.

Especially at times like this, with the words still over his head like a hangman's noose.

William took a breath, trying to push the old ghosts into the back of his mind. "He was twenty-one when I met him. Twenty-six when he died. We spent five very bumpy years tog-well, no, technically four, since we spent a year of that separated after he attacked me. In the span of five years, we spent four together on what I can only call a rollercoaster ride of a relationship.

"I was - am - god-awful at them. I'd had a fair number before I met him. Always the same: some lovely, insecure young thing I manipulated into doing the most humiliating things in exchange for a tiny scrap of my affection. I cared more about how it felt to have that power over them than I actually cared for them. Once I grew bored, I would cut them out coldly and completely. Sometimes quite cruelly.

"My work and my whims were of paramount importance to me, you see.

"You know who Eric Bischoff was and what he did - a legitimate venture capital firm as a front for a rather vast organized crime empire - and I've told you how I became his right-hand man, so I won't belabor that. All I'll say is my ambition at the time was to see Eric gone, and myself at the head of the table. Eric was an idiot who let people manipulate him into making poor business decisions, while I was the one sat at the negotiating table with everyone from legitimate businesspeople to members of South American drug cartels and the Yakuza.

"The King of Spades, they called me." This he had never told Wade, and did so now with a certain relish. He rather missed those days sometimes. "It was meant, I think, as a play both on how I dressed and my surname. But by the time I met Dean, it had come to really mean something. As I was directly involved in the deal-making, I was the one who knew all of the ins and outs of both sides of the operation. So it was to me they all brought their questions. Even Eric. I was unofficially the man running the operation.

"I wanted that to be official, but I wasn't willing to kill Eric myself. No, indeed, I rather assumed his tendency to offend groups like the Russian Mafia or even The McMahon Group would be his undoing eventually. I was merely biding my time.

"Dean didn't really fit into that picture.

"He was the opposite of my usual: tough, irreverent, self-assured, independent. He'd been denied things like affection and kindness and encouragement as a child, but, despite a deep-seated need for them, he was generally unwilling to humiliate himself to get them. Outside the bedroom, at least. In it, he was much more, ah, subm-"

"Too much!" Wade protested, a halting hand raised.

"Sorry," William said. He wasn't, really. "He wasn't afraid to stand up for himself, and wouldn't hesitate to argue with me when it suited him. To challenge me. I didn't realize how much I _needed_ that until he was there doing it. I found that, despite his low-class upbringing and working-class status, I respected him a good deal more than any other lover.

"Needless to say, I became quite infatuated rather quickly. I went to the bar Mondays, and he'd come home with me every other Wednesday or so. We didn't call it dating or relationship. He still had his one-offs with people at the bar, and I did dabble with a couple people from the office, too, but there was _something_.

"I took him to WrestleMania not long after I met him. It was a date, but I didn't dare call it that. For my birthday in May, which happened to fall on a Monday, he pretended he forgot, only to surprise me up at his flat later with dinner, dessert, and gifts. Including these." He held up his wrists to show off the brass-knuckle-shaped gold cufflinks. "It was quite nice.

"I found myself in the frustrating position of wanting to spend more time with him - and not being able to. In those early days, in fact, I'd ask him to join me for lunch or to come by during the day on weekends, and for the most part, he turned me down. Later, he admitted to me it was because he felt like things were becoming 'crazy intense' between us very quickly, and he wasn't prepared for it. Fighting himself over it, in other words, because he wasn't ready

"I called that our best time a bit ago, because it _was_.

"Despite my near-feverish frustration during the late spring and early summer, we rarely had a bad night - arguing books or music or wrestling, trying to cheat each other at cards, me dragging him along to sample all manner of New York's more, ah, exotic cuisine, him making me sit through some of the most god-awful movies known to man as punishment. We had _fun_, which wasn't something I'd really had with previous lovers.

"I'm fully convinced if I'd left things alone, we'd have eventually progressed beyond where we were. It would have taken time, but I never saw any signs he was bored or wanted me to stop coming 'round, so I can't help but think I just needed to be patient.

"But I wasn't patient.

"I was frustrated. I _wanted_.

"And on the day that I came to the bar and found out he'd been badly injured in a fight the night before, that frustration finally prompted me to reach out and simply push him into doing what I wanted."

xXx

Mid-July, and New York City was in the middle of an ungodly heat wave.

William swore to God he could feel the the soles of his shoes melting on the cracked pavement just outside CZW. He shifted his suit coat to his opposite arm as he reached for the bar's splintered black door, frowning as he did at the tacky-looking piece of plywood had been thrown up behind the bar's now-broken front window.

He checked a sigh.

Another bloody bar fight.

He wondered where Dean's bruises would be this time.

Pushing that thought out of mind, he pulled open the door and breathed a quiet sigh of relief as cool air rushed to greet him inside. It really was just an ugly hole in the wall, he reflected as he gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but at least the owner - Mr. Zandig, whom William had met once and had found to be rather intense and as vulgar as Dean - wasn't cheap about running the air conditioner.

As per usual Mondays, the place was mostly empty: two long-haired men in leather jackets and bandanas slouched over mugs of beer at a back table, and of course the old drunk Merle sat in his usual spot at the end of the bar. The jukebox, he noticed, was missing altogether and there seemed to be several tables and chairs missing around the floor.

Must have been some fight.

William made his way over to his own usual spot in front of the television and slid onto the stool, tossing his suit coat and messenger bag onto the stool beside him. There was no one actually behind the bar at the moment, which was a bit odd: Dean was almost always sat there reading whatever paperback he'd pulled out of the crates upstairs.

And it wasn't Dean who emerged from the back office, either, but rather Mr. Zandig himself: a stocky chap with thickly-muscled biceps and scarred hands who _bulled forward_ rather than simply walked anywhere. He'd shaved his head completely since William had last seen him. Not a bad look for him, really, although the two big hoop earrings he had in either ear were a bit much.

He seemed tired tonight as he approached William's end of the bar. "He's upstairs," he said, as always coming straight to his point. "We had a big blow-up in here last night, and Mox-" that was Zandig's nickname for Dean, apparently as in _moxie _"-got the shit kicked out of him. They threw him through the fuckin' window. DJ ran him to the ER last night to get him checked out. Nothing broken. They stuck a yard of stitches in him, though. Docs said he'll be fine in a couple weeks."

The words snapped together in William's head like jigsaw pieces: Fight. Dean injured. Thrown through a window.

A yard of stitches and Dean would be _fine_?

Cool, dark anger slithered up William's spine like an icy snake.

He laced his hands together on the bar, imprisoning them lest they try to do something naughty.

Dean probably wouldn't approve of his boss's face being smashed into the bar, unfortunately.

When he trusted himself to speak, it was to say, "You really ought to think about the way you run your bar, Mr. Zandig. Encouraging fights the way you do is a surefire way to get someone killed. And even if no one is killed, all it would take is one disgruntled employee or an injured patron to sue you into bankruptcy."

Zandig folded his hairy, meaty forearms over his chest, eyes narrowing. "That better not be a threat, pal."

"Merely an observation," William replied.

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for your observations, now did I? Don't tell me how to run my bar. Mox was the one stupid enough to jump into the middle it instead of going off to call the goddamn cops like he should've. I've told him I don't know how many times - one or two people, it's fine. More than that, get the cops. Six people last night - you think he was smart enough to stay out of it? No. No, he had to get in there. So it's his own fucking fault he got his ass kicked."

Unperturbed, William slid off the stool. "The point still stands, Mr. Zandig. You encourage fighting - and one of these days someone really is going to be injured badly enough to take you for everything you've got. That's monumentally stupid on your part."

"Hey, mind your own fucking business," Zandig said irritably, pushing away from the bar.

"Dean is my business."

"Yeah, well, he's still fucking half my customers," Zandig said as he disappeared into the back, "so I gotta wonder about that. He's upstairs, like I said, so get the fuck out of my bar."

William didn't even bother to dignify that with an answer, instead gathering his things and making his way up the creaky, narrow side staircase that led up to Dean's tiny flat.

Clearly Mr. Zandig had no intention of changing how he did business here, then - even if it got one of his bartenders killed.

It was not a comforting thought.

He rapped two knuckles against the thin door, and waited until a raspy, "'S open," drifted out to let himself in.

What Dean called home wasn't much: a cramped little sitting room that opened straight up into the kitchen, with a small square of a bedroom through a door off to the left and a claustrophobic closet of a bathroom off that. Not much in the way of furniture: squashy old blue sofa in the living room, a wobbly card table and two dodgy folding chairs that served as a dining table, a few crates full of books serving a dual role as tables and shelves, and a mattress and box spring on the floor in the bedroom beside a broken dresser.

The old off-white wallpaper was peeling from the tops of practically every wall, and the carpet was so worn in spots that the padding underneath was showing through. The linoleum in the kitchen area was curling up around the base of the cabinets, too.

All the charm of a torn cardboard box, this place, but Dean still seemed stubbornly proud of it.

Humble as it was, it was _his_ \- the first he'd ever managed to acquire on his own.

At the moment, the lad in question was stretched out on the sofa in shorts and a tee shirt, head propped up on a pillow and a book open on his chest.

William took one good look at him and sighed. "You look like you lost a fight with a blender."

Dean grunted a pained laugh. "I was thinkin' I lost a fight with Freddy Kreuger. 'S about how I feel."

His left eye had been punched halfway shut, the white in it gone a rather demonic red thanks to what was probably a burst blood vessel. His lower lip was puffy and split. There were easily a dozen scabbed-over slashes across his forehead, cheeks, and jaw - and probably another three dozen on his arms and legs, angry lines that crossed every which way. Thick white bandages had been wrapped around his right forearm from wrist to elbow, and his left calf from ankle to knee. Fresh pale bruises blotched the skin under and around all the cuts.

"I don't doubt." William tossed his things on the stack of crates to his right, then went to drag the least-broken folding chair over in front of the couch, noting, as he did, that there was a half-full water glass sat next to a bottle of ibuprofen and an empty plate on the crate that served as Dean's coffee table.

Dean managed a wan smile as William sat. "Hey."

"Evening," William said, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee. "I hear you had a bit of a time of it last night."

"Yeah." Dean's sigh was the scrape of rust flaking away from a pipe, harsh and grating. "Drunks bein' drunks. You know."

"What exactly happened? Your boss didn't say."

"Oh, couple guys in a group of like six got into it," Dean replied, tossing his book down beside his water. "I jumped in to try to cool it down. All six of 'em turned on me. Next thing you know, I'm flyin' out the window. I'd've been okay 'cept they came outside and kicked my ass when I was down in all that glass."

William carefully leaned back in the chair, head inclined. "Hmm. Mr. Zandig made it sound like you waded in when all six of them were fighting. Seemed to think you brought this-" he gestured at all the bruising and cuts "-on yourself."

"Yeah, I heard," Dean muttered waspishly, eyebrows pulling together. "He came up here this morning and chewed me out. He wasn't even _there_. And DJ didn't get out there 'til after I went through the window, so I don't know what the fuck Zandig was talking about. I _didn't_ jump into six dudes brawling. I'm not that fuckin' stupid."

If there was a lie in any of that, William couldn't spot it. "I didn't think you were," he said. He reached over to settle a light hand on Dean's head, fingers threading through the unruly sandy curls. "How bad is it? Really?"

Dean leaned into the touch, eyes sliding shut. "Stitches are the worst part. Feel like I'm gonna rip 'em open if I move too much. And I got one bruise right over my bellybutton that really hurts. Other than that, I'm just sore. Prolly get up an' try move more tomorrow. Stretch out a little."

"I see," William said. He continued the light scalp massage. "Is your eye all right?"

"You mean Frankeneye?" Dean huffed a laugh through his nose. "Yeah, it's fine. Looks worse 'n it is." He sat up then, slowly, wincing, and plucked William's hand off his head. "Hey, c'mere 'n sit. Too far away over there."

William smiled indulgently and shifted around to take a seat on the couch, tucked right up against the arm.

Without invitation, Dean dropped his pillow onto William's lap and laid his head down there, guiding William's hand to settle in the middle of his chest as he did.

"Any injuries here I need to watch for?" William asked, quietly tapping along the hard ridge if Dean's ribcage.

"Yeah, down around my belly button, like I said. One on my ribs. Right side. Low. Nothing else. I had my hoodie on at least, so I had some protection."

"I see." William settled back against the soft old couch's rear cushion, allowing his hand to wander a bit. "I really don't like seeing you like this."

"I don't like feelin' like this. Prolly not gonna be up for, y'know, screwin' around tonight." Once again, Dean's forehead furrowed. "You don't gotta stay long, if you got work to do tonight."

"I have a few contracts to read over, is all," William said. "D'you mind if I stay? I was rather looking forward to seeing what happened on _Raw_ this week. If you're not up to it, obviously, that's all right. I can certainly go after a bit and leave you to your rest. You need it."

"I'm just sayin," Dean said through a yawn, "that you're really comfortable and you might not be able to get me up if I fall asleep."

Smiling indulgently, William said, "In that case, let me get my contracts and something to drink. Then you can sleep away."

It wasn't as if he had anything pressing to do tonight, anyway.

That, and the way Dean's face relaxed gave away that he'd hoped William _would _stay. "'S food in the fridge," he said through a yawn, levering himself back up, " if you want, too. Sami went shopping for me today. I dunno what all's in there, but if you find something go for it. Oh, and while you're up, how about a brownie for me?"

"You're lucky I like you, my dear boy," William murmured, shooting him a wry look. "I don't wait on just anyone hand and foot, you know."

That earned him a sunny, unrepentant grin, the effects of which were somewhat marred by the purpling bruises and slashed cut lines. Rather made him look like a horror villain for a moment. "Yeah, well, I'm awesome."

"You're an idiot." William rose and made his way off into the kitchenette. It was close enough to the couch that he didn't even have to raise his voice to add, "D'you know, I saw the window downstairs, and my first thought was 'I bet Dean did that.' I'm not happy to have been right."

Relieved, certainly, that Dean was alive and seemed relatively himself, but still.

_Still._

Dean's groan sounded muffled. He'd covered his face with a pillow like a sulky child. "No lectures. I already got one of those today and now I don't got enough ass left to chew."

Skinny as he was, he didn't have much of one to begin with. William huffed a quiet laugh to himself and pulled open the ancient refrigerator, grimacing as always at the door's horrid sharp squeal. "I won't," he said. "I'll just look concerned and tell you I don't like seeing you injured. And not," he added, whipping around just in time to catch Dean open his mouth to say something, "just because it means we can't have sex. Don't you dare. You know better."

"I'm fine," Dean muttered. "Seriously, stop it."

"Stop being concerned? Again, you know better."

Unusually, there was no answer.

As he finished putting together a quick meal of a light salad with chunks of chicken and apple, William contemplated his next move. The _stop it_ hadn't been as defensive as usual. Dean injured and craving company might well mean Dean with his guard down.

Perhaps it was time to make that move he'd been thinking about.

They ate silently, Dean wolfing his brownie hunched against the back of the couch while William steadily made his way through his salad, refusing to be rushed despite the longing looks Dean kept giving his lap.

He really didn't look well, face as pale as his tee shirt, eyes half-lidded and glassy with fatigue.

Probably explained this unusual intrusion into William's personal space; Dean wasn't terribly touchy-feely, and tended to avoid anything more than incidental contact outside of sex or sleeping - even when they sat together watching movies. For him to be doing his best impression of a cat impatient to sit on its master's lap right now likely meant he really wasn't in a good way.

He barely let William set his bowl down on the crate coffee table before he had the pillow - and his head - back down on William's lap, one knee bent up against the back of the soft couch and the other foot down on the floor.

William eyed the inch-thick stack of contracts he'd tucked between his thigh and the couch's arm beside him, but ignored them in favor of quietly surveying the damage that had left Dean looking like a horror movie survivor. Up close, he could see a whole webwork of faint red scratches in and among the deeper cuts, like bizarre species of glass spider had tried to make his cheeks and chin a home. More disturbingly, one of the longer cuts ran on a diagonal from just under Dean's right ear across to the front of his throat.

Much deeper and that one could have slashed an artery.

He tapped a couple of restless fingers against Dean's collar bone, and, on finding Dean's eyes still - barely - open, asked, "_Are_ you all right?"

"Yeah, I'll live," was the tired reply. "Kind of a close call, though."

"I see that."

"Kinda pissed at Zandig, too, you know? Bein' a douchebag about this." He slung his bandaged right arm over his midsection, face tightening. "Sayin', you know, it's my fault and I gotta pay my own medical bills. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I don't get shit pay here. And, fuck's sake, I was tryin' to keep the bar from gettin' thrashed and other people from gettin' hurt. I didn't fuckin' start it."

That earlier bad taste made its way back into William's mouth, and he shook his head irritably. As if he needed another reason to try to talk Dean into leaving the bar. "You don't pay them," he said firmly. "But don't worry about this right now. It can wait a day or two. Just concentrate on healing up."

Stubborn boy, of course, refused to drop it. "How do I not pay them?"

William gave him a flat look. "_Later_, I said. Stop worrying about it."

Dean grabbed William's wrist and pinned it to his chest. "You better not do anything," he said. "I can take care of myself, and I don't need trouble."

"I wasn't planning on _doing_ anything." Technically speaking, _talking_ to Mr. Zandig - even threatening him - wasn't actually _doing_ anything, was it? "All I meant was you have options, and I've got a few ideas, so when you're ready we'll talk about them. You can decide how you want to proceed from there. But you're clearly not in any state for that discussion right now, so I'd just as soon leave it for the time being."

"...oh," Dean muttered, gaze skittering away. "Guess that's - um. Yeah, that's cool."

William gently tugged his wrist free and moved up to card light fingers through Dean's hair again, head tipped to one side as he watched Dean stare off at the old gray clock hung over the television.

He should really let Dean sleep, but.

But a guilty Dean was a pliant Dean. A receptive one. It was as good a time as any. "May I ask you something?"

Naturally, the question earned him a wary look. "Yeah…?"

"I promise you I'm not trying to upset you," he said, figuring he might as well get that out in the open first. "I'm just wondering. Are you happy working at the bar? Is it what you really want to be doing, or is it just something you're looking at as a temporary stopover while you get back on your feet?"

He half-expected Dean's expression close down like it tended to anytime he brought anything too personal, but Dean just shifted a bit and folded his hands together over his stomach. "It's not so bad," he said. "Mean, I'm not in love with it, but it's all right when Zandig aint' bein' a dick. Is it what I want to do forever? No."

"Any idea what you do what to do?"

"Not really." Dean sighed. "I think about, like, _normal_ stuff - drivin' a desk or even workin' at a place like this - and I just can't see myself _there_, you know? I can't see myself doing this forever. Mean, as much fun as I have with all the fights and shit, I get _bored_. Like to the point sometimes lately where I actually _pick_ the fights. I didn't last night," he added, "I swear, but sometimes if it's just one drunk asshole I do. I'd probably do the same thing at some boring office job, too. Get my ass fired."

"Some people aren't _meant_ to stay inside the lines, you know," William said. He dragged the backs of his fingernails lightly up over Dean's collarbones and back down. "Perhaps that's you. It's certainly me."

"Was that what you expected to be doing?" Dean asked, forehead furrowed. "Working for a criminal?"

"It wasn't what I expected to be doing, no," William replied, "but it's what I want to do, yes. I rather enjoy what I do." He paused deliberately, and added, "Well, as long no one's shoving guns in my face or trying to kidnap me, I should say."

A quickflash of bright, alarmed blue when Dean's eyes popped open. "Shoving-? Does that actually _happen_?"

"More often than I'd like," William admitted. Suppressing a smile. It was too easy sometimes. "It's part of the job. I'm called to negotiate with drug cartels and powerful crime organizations from other countries. They're dangerous people, but as long as you're appropriately respectful, most of them are civilized. That said, I do occasionally run across the odd group or individual who thinks the way to gain a foothold in Eric's organization is by killing me. In fact, d'you remember a few weeks ago I came back from my trip to Mexico?"

"Yeah?"

"My idiot former bodyguard insulted our hosts to the point they wanted to execute us."

Injuries apparently forgotten, Dean swiveled up sitting. "Jesus fucking Christ, are you _serious_?"

"As a heart attack," William said grimly. Laying it on thick: his now-former bodyguard _had_ blundered, but after a quick word with the gentleman at the table, William had been able to smooth things over with minimal harm done. "I spent an uncomfortable amount of time with a gun shoved under my chin. I quite thought I'd finally met my end, but fortunately, I was able to talk my host into sparing us. But that blunder did quite cost us in the negotiation."

"You – who the fuck _cares _about the negotiation?" An angry flush had worked its way up the pale skin on the back of his neck. "You had a gun in your fucking face."

"It's not the first time."

"Not the – Jesus _Christ_, William! Seriously, what the _fuck_ are you _doing_?"

"My job," William said implacably. "It's not without its perils, admittedly. But so far – knock on wood – the only serious injury I've sustained was a broken collarbone when I was kidnapped two years ago."

Dean looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel, his face was so red. Anger and worry. A thing of beauty. "Wh-?_ Fuck_. How did you get – no. No, you know what? I don't care. You didn't fucking tell me you almost got killed in Mexico, you asshole."

"You didn't tell me you nearly got your throat slit last night," William said, pointedly looking down at the nasty slash across Dean's jugular. "So."

"I was _fine_."

"So was I."

"You could have gotten _killed_." Stubbornly. A dog with a rotten bone it refused to give up.

"So could you," William replied. "All it would have taken was one stray shard of glass. Don't tell me I'm not right to be concerned when you _just said_ you're starting fights out of boredom. All _that_ would take is the wrong word to the wrong person."

"I can take care of myself," Dean said waspishly.

William eyed the bandages again. "Clearly."

"Hey, I'm not the one getting _guns_ shoved in my face. Jesus Christ. Are you out of your _mind?_"

"No, you're the one being thrown through bloody plate glass windows and turning up with new bruises every time I see you." He held up a hand. "Before you say it, I know you can handle yourself in a fight. I've seen you. It doesn't mean I don't worry. As I said, all it would take is you distracted and one angry drunk with a broken bottle."

Dean's swollen mouth tightened. "What about _you_, asshole? One wrong word to some crazy drug dealer or something, and you got a fuckin' bullet in your head. That ain't exactly something _I_ wanna think about."

Once again pleased by the anger and worry - _tell me again you don't have feelings for me you, you rotten bastard _\- writ large in Dean's expression, William shifted. He reckoned he now knew what a climber who'd finally found a foothold on a smooth rock face felt.

This could not have gone better if he'd scripted it.

"Then don't," he said. "I have an idea, actually. It would get you out of the bar and it would give me someone I know is good in a fight - and that I could actually trust - to watch my back." He leaned forward to settle a hand on an uninjured spot on Dean's knee. "I've been thinking about this almost since I met you, you know. I have it every time I see you wade into a bad situation." Three or four times now he'd seen it. No fights ever broke out - Dean typically wasn't in the mood for it Mondays - and the speed with which Dean could have the would-be fighters showing their bellies was quite amusing.

"The way you carry yourself, the way you aren't afraid to fight - I think you'd make a good bodyguard." He watched some shadow flicker across Dean's expression, a cloud blotting the sun, and leaned forward a bit more. "With training, of course. I don't mean stick a gun in your hand tomorrow and expect you to know your elbow from a hole in the ground. _But_. You're not stupid. You know how to fight. You could _learn_ is my point. And then you could break away from this monotony. Travel the world with me. That way we don't have to worry about randomly finding out one or the other has been killed, you've got something interesting to do that'll pay you obscenely well, and I've got someone reliable and trustworthy to keep an eye on things."

A kind of strained silence fell between them, tense, as if two people were playing tug 'o war with the air between them.

Dean's battered face held nothing readable; nor did his eyes, those odd things in their seas of red and white. When he finally ventured to break the quiet, it wasn't to give an answer. "How do you do it, though? You're one of the smartest people I know. You could be doin' your negotiatngs and deal makings or whatever for a legitimate company. So how the fuck do you get mixed up in all this crime shit?"

When William had told Dean about all this back in May, he'd expected a question like this.

Dean had never asked; in fact, he'd barely said a word about any of it after William's hushed nighttime confession of the exact nature of his work. They'd never discussed it. Dean didn't appear to begrudge an occasional stray reference, but he didn't encourage it.

Still, William was just as ready with his answer now as he'd been then. "I don't think about the illegal nature of most of it that often. Most days I'm busy in meetings and having paperwork drawn up. I do it because I enjoy the challenge. Matching wits with members of rather powerful crime organizations across a negotiating table. Devising ways to hide and launder money. Figuring out how to stay a step ahead of the authorities. Even coming up with ideas to help our legitimate businesses prosper. It engages me." He tapped the side of his head. "There's not a legitimate job out there that offers that could match this.

"I'm thirty-one," he went on, "and I've done more in two years than most people do in a lifetime. And I'm sat in position where if Eric gets himself killed like I think he will, I'll be the one person equipped to walk in and take the reigns. I know all the players. I know where all the pieces are. I know where all the bodies are buried. I know better than Eric does. It's just a matter of time."

Dean's expression remained infuriatingly inscrutable. He pushed WIlliam's hand away from his knee. "So, what, 'Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven'? That kinda where you're going with this?"

Pleased all over again, William nodded, "That's where I'm going."

"And all the illegal shit you guys are doing - you don't care."

"If it isn't us, it's someone else." William hitched his elbow up onto the couch's arm. "The demand for what we sell, what we bring to the market, has been around since long before Eric went into business. It'll still be there long after we're gone. People will simply look elsewhere for what they want. It's a _choice_. Lest you forget, no one is forcing them to buy what we're selling, or even forcing them to buy it from _us_. It's their choice, and what they choose to do with what they buy is not my concern."

"So you sell a gun to some asshole who walks in and shoots up a school, and you just - you, what, you just say 'Oh well'? Not my problem?"

"You pour a drinks all day for an alcoholic who then goes home and beats his wife and children to death," William countered. "Does that make you responsible?"

Dean closed his mouth, uncertainty cracking his self-righteous indignation.

Another foothold. "It doesn't." William said. Brisk. Assured. "Because those sorts of acts require a conscious choice, and no one is responsible for those choices except the person making them. Giving someone a drink, putting a gun in their hand - it still doesn't make that act happen. We're not out there saying 'take this gun and do this' any more than you're saying 'you're drunk enough now - go do that.'" He inclined his head. "The responsibility for those sorts of acts ultimately lies with the people who actually choose to do them - not me, or the people I work with. Or you, in the other case.

"That's not to say I don't feel _bad_, because I do." 'Bad' might have been overstating it, but it felt like the right thing to say. Dean's scabbed-over fists, balled up on his thighs, unclenched. "You never like to see a waste of life like that. _But_. I'd ask questions like 'What went wrong in that person's life that brought them to that point? Were there signs that were missed? Why did they feel like they needed to take that action in the first place?' It's never as clear-cut as 'I sold him the gun, so I caused him to go shoot someone.' That's a crap argument. There's virtually _always _something else driving it."

After another a long, considering pause, Dean nodded. Looked a bit grudging, but it was good to see nonetheless. "I guess you got a point there," he admitted. "It's like, I serve these people drinks at the bar and they get drunk, but I don't know what they're gonna do once they leave. Mean, if I think something's gonna happen, I might call somebody, but otherwise, how the fuck do I know?"

"You don't." His hand, that wicked thing, stole out again and found its way back to Dean's knee. "You can feel bad it happened and feel bad for the people involved, but you're still not responsible for something like that happening. That's my point. All I do is facilitate selling people things. What they do once they what they've been sold is neither my business nor my problem."

"Yeah, I get it," Dean said, yet again pushing William's hand away from him. "So you're really okay with it?"

"Yes," William said. This time he took hold of Dean's wrist, openly defying him to shake the touch off. "Some people are meant to stay inside the lines, to stay on that gerbil wheel to nowhere, to grind out a menial and mundane existence. But I'm not one of them, and neither are you - and you know it." He tightened his grip. "I really think you'd be good at this. As I said, you'd have to be trained, and it's in the training we'd find out for certain, but I absolutely believe it's worth a try. I guarantee you you won't be bored. You won't be wanting for a fight, either. When you're training, you'll be doing rather a lot of that with men twice your size - who can take a punch."

Dean jerked his arm away. "Don't fuckin' touch me," he snapped. "And it sure is funny - you freak out if I'm fighting here at the bar, but hey, it's okay if I'm doing it where you want me to be."

"I'm not actually worried about the _fighting_," William pointed out. Struggling not to lose that foothold. "I do know you can handle yourself. I just don't want you getting injured or killed because you were bored here at the bar. At least if you were working for me, the fighting you did would either be for training purposes or would be out on a job. You'd be earning a lot of money from something you seem to want to do anyway - while keeping me safe, traveling extensively to all manner of exotic places, and not being stuck _here_. Perhaps I'm missing something, but where's the downside?"

There was no immediate answer; Dean sat tapping his fingers on his thighs - pinky to forefinger and back - while he mulled it over, shoulders pulled in and eyelids looking heavy with fatigue. "I don't wanna be around drugs," was what he said. "I'm - I put that shit behind me, but, you know, temptation…"

"You won't be," William assured him. "That's not my world. I only broker the deals that give us the supplies to sell. I never see any of the merchandise myself - nor do I want to. You won't either."

"And you really think…? I mean, you're not just blowing smoke up my ass, right? Like you really want me to do this. You think I can."

"We won't know that for sure until you've begun training, obviously," William said. "_But_, having said that, yes, I really do. You're a sharp lad, and I don't think you give yourself enough credit for that. You're a fighter. And you're not afraid to get in there and get your hands dirty. That's exactly the sort of attitude I need in someone who's going to protect me. I want you to do it because I genuinely believe you can."

It might have been a trick of the light, but he he swore he saw color creep into Dean's slashed-up cheeks.

"So come to work for me," he pressed, fingers yet again finding their way across the gap. Dean's thigh, this time, near one balled-up fist. "At least give it a try."

"Okay, okay, all right," Dean muttered down at his legs. No question about the color in his cheeks now. "All right. Fuck. Fine. You really want me to - like if you really do - I'll give it a shot. Somebody's gotta keep you from getting your stupid head blown off. Seriously. You're – fuck, all this time, and I didn't even realize I might not fucking see you again. Fuck you for not telling me sooner."

"I'm sorry," William said. "I should have."

"Yeah." He swallowed. "But so you know, I don't know dick about that kind of job. So if I suck at it, it's your fucking fault. I wanna protect you. I fucking _will_. But – yeah. I don't know the right way or anything. If you really want me to, like I said, if you're sure, I will."

William released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and permitted himself a small smile. The mountain had been climbed, and now it was time to relax and enjoy the view. "That's what the training is for, idiot boy," he said fondly. "And no, I don't want you to work for me at all, really. I just enjoy lying to you and making a fool of myself for your amusement."

Sometimes Dean was the most unpredictable person William knew.

Other times, he was so predictable it was quite hilarious.

Now, for example, just as William anticipated, Dean's mouth twitched, mirth breaking through the gruffness in his expression. "I knew it," he said, tired eyes rolling. "You're such an asshole."

"Oh, hush," William fluffed the pillow on his lap. "Lie back down, will you? You look like you're about done in."

"Well, I _was_ gonna try to take a nap," Dean said through a yawn, "but _somebody_ had to jump my ass when I told him not to. Hope you're happy. I got, like, _negative_ ass now."

"Not to hurt your feelings, but you didn't exactly have-"

"Shut up." Dean stretched himself back out, knees popping as he propped his feet up on the couch's other arm. "You're gonna have to give me a couple weeks to get shit arranged here, you know. I ain't just gonna up and walk away from Zandig 'til I know what's what about these medical bills. And, you know, prolly have to find a new place to live."

As tempting as it might have been to offer Dean the use of his guest room, William resisted. He wasn't quite ready to have Dean so completely in his space just yet - nor did he think Dean was ready to. "We've got our own in-house real estate person," he said instead, fingers sneaking down to pluck at the bit of fabric right over one of Dean's nipples. "It's a job benefit. We tell her how much you want to pay in rent, and she'll find you something. All of our employees get that opportunity."

Through a yawn, Dean said, "What's the pay like?"

"For now, I think the rate is something like four thousand a month while you're in training, and double that when you're full-time. You get bonuses and raises, so you'll be pulling in six figures inside a year if you stick with it."

Dean's eyebrows hitched. "Six…? Holy shit."

William shifted a bit to put the pillow more evenly across his legs. "I believe - as does Eric - in taking care of the people who take care of me. And, on top of that, we'll get to spend more time together. That can't be a bad thing, can it?"

"Well, no, but…" A hint of anxiety in the way Dean's swollen lower lip disappeared between his teeth. "You know I'm not gonna stop fucking other people, right?"

"Yes, I do actually know you a bit, dear boy," William replied dryly. "As long as you're not chasing them in front of me, do whatever you like. When you're with me, however, it's just me."

"Always is. Just - same for you."

"Yes, yes, of course. Now hush. Just rest. We can discuss this more at length later."

Dean's eyelids drifted shut. "Don't let me sleep through _Raw_."

It was still two hours until it started, according to the clock over the television. William picked up the inch-thick stack of contracts he'd set beside him when he'd sat down earlier. "I won't."

There was nothing but a sleepy nonsense mumble of an answer.

William smiled indulgently down at the - _his_ \- boy's battered face and, for the first time in quite a long while, felt something like contentment settle in.

No, they weren't where he wanted to be just yet, but they were on their way.

[_Finis_]


	2. The First Test

A/N: This was probably my favorite Dean/Regal scene to write out of all of them. The first time Dean saved Regal's life. Enjoy.

**In The Echosphere  
II. The First Test**

"Nobody had ever really said shit like 'you're smart' or 'I think you'd been good at this' to me before," Dean told Seth and Roman.

The pair of them sat identically cross-legged on the bed in front of him, hands on their knees - a couple kids parked in front of a campfire to hear a ghost story.

Dean, who suddenly wasn't so sure _he_ wasn't a ghost, looked at them in turn. Their knees were touching, but neither of them was touching him. He was used to it by now; part of him couldn't help wondering if they did it on purpose.

If they even knew they were doing it.

They didn't, either of them, look like they were about to fall asleep: Seth's soft dark eyes implored him to continue, while Roman's stormy grays all but demanded it.

_Dammit_.

He shifted back against the headboard to make himself more comfortable. The new flood of memories made his brain feel like an oversaturated sponge, full to the point even the slightest jostle would send mental images flooding out his ears. The pressure in his temples wasn't quite unbearable, but the fucking noise - all this shit playing over the radios - made it fucking hard for him to think in a straight line.

"It's stupid," he finally went on, "but I knew I wasn't an idiot. I knew I wasn't useless, either. But when that's all you hear people ever say to you, it fucks you up a little. So it's, like, it's really - it really matters when somebody whose opinion counts to you says something like 'You're smart. I think you'd be good at this.' So even though I felt weird about, you know, gettin' involved in that world, I did it anyway.

"I had a reason to do it: I was serious about wanting to protect him. Hearing about him almost getting snuffed out in Mexico freaked me the fuck out. It was like some switch in my head got flipped or something. All I could think was I wanted – _needed_ – to protect him. Went back to how, you know, he treated me different than anybody else. He was important to me."

Briefly he glanced at Roman. "I get it," he said. "Wanting to protect what's important to you. I get that. And I trained like crazy. Turned out I was pretty good with a gun, and, like at the bar, pretty good at spotting when trouble was about to his. I kind of put all the shit about working for a criminal aside because I wasn't actually doing crime shit. I justified it to myself as _I'm_ not doing crime. I'm just watching somebody's back.

"Having to kill someone – eh, yeah, I hoped to Christ I'd never have to, but more than that, I hoped if I ever _did_, I _could_.

"But I was good at the job, and I fucking _loved _it."

xXx

"He was a natural at it," William said, letting his gaze wander up to the ceiling again. "More than even I expected. I thought he'd stumble when it came down to actually killing someone, but from the first time to the last, he never hesitated to pull the trigger.

"What made him so good was that he had almost a sixth sense for when things were about to go wrong. I called it a sixth sense, anyway; he claimed it was just because he spent so much time fighting on the streets as a child and then in the bar that he knew when a fight was about to break out.

"He was observant, is what it came down to. You're trained to be, I know, when you work security, but Dean was one of those who could read a room and know immediately something was about to happen.

"Case in point: our first year out together, we traveled down to Panama to meet with a weapon dealer.

"It was the first time we came under fire.

"It was when I knew I'd made the right decision."

xXx

Dean didn't know how to explain it other than like an itch between his shoulder blades.

_Something_.

As he lay sprawled out on their big hotel bed, Dean absently reached over to scratch the back of his arm. It was hotter than hell in this room, and humid as fuck. Breathing like trying to breathe soup, and as he watched William straightening his brass knuckle cufflinks in the mirror, he wondered how the fuck the guy wasn't just _dying_.

Hundred degree weather in the middle of the fucking summer, and William had black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a black vest on. His hair, which he'd started to let grow out a little from its usual short-straight cut, was curling damp at his collar.

Sharp-cool eyes met his in the mirror. "You seem tense, dove."

Dean stopped scratching. "Fuckin' hot in here," he lied. He was in khaki shorts and a plain tee white shirt, and he could feel rivers of sweat running down his torso - already. He'd just showered an hour ago. "Why do you keep calling me dove? I'm not a damn bird."

He'd been doing that for like six weeks.

"That's not what it means," William said with one of those annoying mysterious little smiles that meant he wasn't going to fucking explain anything. He turned away from the mirror and reached for his leather portfolio deal. "Let's go over this once more."

Shrugging, Dean made his way up to his elbows. "What's to go over? We go down, I walk in the room with you, and, assuming this dude's as good as his word about not having security there, I go wait outside. So what do you mean by 'dove,' then?"

"It's a portmanteau," was the cryptic reply.

"A _what_?" Dean got to his feet and reached for his holster.

William just smiled his smug-asshole smile. "I've changed my mind, by the way," he said, leaning casually back against the long dresser. "As soon as we've conducted our business with Manolo, I'd like to get out for some sightseeing the rest of the afternoon. I've never actually been over to see the canal itself, and I'd like to do that before lunch. Perhaps see some of the beaches this afternoon."

"You on a beach?" Dean asked. He finished strapping the shoulder holster in place, absently marveling at what a comfort it was to have his guns where they belonged - something he'd never dreamed he'd think even a year ago. "Aren't you afraid you're gonna burn to a crisp?"

"It's rather more so I can watch you cavort around in what I brought for you, actually." Leering. He was fucking leering like a vampire staring at a pristine neck. "I'll bring an umbrella."

"I don't know what 'cavort' means," Dean said, rolling his eyes, "but I'm pretty sure I don't do it. And if you're talking about that little pair of red nothing I saw you throw in your suitcase, forget it. There's not enough fabric on those things to cover _one_ of my nuts. And what the fuck is a portman...thingy? Whatever that was you said."

"Portmanteau?" William asked, one corner of his mouth pulled up all smug and shit.

The dick.

Dean snagged his blue Hawaiian shirt and put it on. "Yeah," he said as he checked to be sure his guns were covered, "that. What is it?"

William tucked his portfolio under one arm and made his way over to where Dean stood. Still smirking, he reached over to straighten Dean's collar. "I'll tell you what it means," he said, "if you'll wear what I brought you down to the beach."

Tiny bright red Speedos.

Fucking _miniscule_.

"No way," Dean said. "I don't wanna know _that_ bad. 'Sides, I can look it up."

"'Portmanteau', yes," William said, one hand lifting to cup Dean's cheek. "'Dove,' no. And no matter how much you fuss at me, I won't stop calling you that, either. Nor will I tell you what it means." Huffing a laugh, he leaned in for a slow kiss. "Now, come along, dove. Let's get our business out of the way so we can have the rest of our day for our _pleasure_."

Dean swallowed convulsively, nearly shuddering at the silky dark way the last word rolled across his nerves. The heat in William's eyes. It was nearly enough to make him blurt out something stupid like 'fine, I'll wear the fucking Speedos.'

Because he was stupid and his dick was stupid and William fucking Regal still made him and his stupid dick stupid.

Thank _fuck_ for second thoughts.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay, let's - huh. Let's go get this shit done."

Two steps out their door, the lust and good humor melted away as that fucking tickling itch returned and had him frowning down the stairwell. Nothing he could put a finger on. This Manolo was a dude they'd apparently done good business with before for counterfeit currency; William had said the guy was easy to work with.

So it was probably nothing.

In and out, and they'd be fucking like rabbits in a few hours.

He wiped damp hands on his shorts and watched a single bead of sweat work its way down from behind William's ear down to his razor-sharp white collar.

It was probably nothing.

Nice hotel, stuffy and closed-in. Blue carpet, white walls, brown wood doors with large numbers on them.

Big windows at the end of the hall let sunlight blare in.

Mid-morning.

They stopped at a room on the south end of the hall, all the way down by the opposite stairwell.

Dean scratched his shoulder again as WIlliam knocked at the door.

_It's always the people you think you can trust._

A short, thin guy with a head full of thick jet black hair answered. Dark brown eyes that stuttered up to and away from William's face. Light blue, short-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki pants. Tanned skin. Probably a little older than Regal. Deep tan of a guy who spent a lot of time out in the sun.

He greeted WIlliam with a small smile, but didn't make eye contact as he extended a hand. Said, in accented but clear English, "Good to see you again, Senor Regal."

"Manolo," William greeted him warmly. "It's a pleasure."

"Si, yes it is. Please, come in."

Still no eye contact, and just a quick, nervous flick of a look Dean's way before he backed into the room.

The itching - or whatever the fuck it was - intensified.

Dean touched two fingers to the back of William's hand as they followed.

_Careful._

William gave him an odd look out of the corner of his eye, frowned.

It was just a smaller version of the suite upstairs: bathroom immediately to the left, and then the room opened up with a dresser on the right and a large bed across from it. A round table with four chairs sat at the back just under a bank of windows.

There was a stack of blank paper on the table, but they were bent a little like there was something underneath. And there was - something black, and rounded on the end.

Beside the bed was a brand new roll of black trash bags sitting on a roll of silver duct tape.

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew attention to the closed bathroom door. A shadow on its threshold - down on the floor - moved like a mouse or a rat had run across it.

He didn't even stop to think after that.

William was halfway to the table. The Manolo guy was already there, right hand creeping toward whatever was concealed under the papers.

_Gun_.

Dean stepped forward quickly and muttered, "Red-light," in William's ear.

Which was the signal for William get the fuck behind him.

But William just shot him that weird look again - idiot - just _fucking_ stood there cow-eyed like Dean was fucking crazy, but holy _fuck_, Manolo shook the papers off and _yeah_, fucking _yeah_, it was a gun.

Trapped.

It was a goddamn _trap_.

Manolo brought it up just as Dean threw himself at William hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs. (_Safe, keep him safe_.) William's thighs connected with the bed, and he toppled over as a gun went off.

A silenced gun, the sound almost more like spitballs being shot out of a straw.

Dean felt pain - burning and distant - in his arm, but ignored it as he whipped out his own gun, and, still lying on William's back, fired off three blind, desperate shots behind him.

Immediately his ears rang with the explosion. He darted a look around and felt relief swoop through him at the sight of Manolo sliding down the wall beside the table, a smear of blood and brain matter streaking the wall in his wake.

_The shadow. The fucking shadow._

Dean pushed to his feet, snarling, "Get _down_," at William, who nodded stupidly, wide-eyed, and wedged himself into the narrow gap between the bed and the wall just as the bathroom door burst open.

A squat, fat dark-haired slob of a guy in a grimy white tee shirt stumbled out, an AK in his hand, and a look of dumbfounded surprise breaking across his face when he looked up and saw Dean pointing a gun at him.

Two shots nearly took fat-ass out of his boots.

A third guy, tall and skinny as a fucking rail, poked his head out for a fraction of a second, and then stuck his gun out into the room and opened fire, his body completely shielded in the bathroom.

Dean threw himself onto the bed as bullets pinged and whizzed off of just about every surface of the room, smashing the TV glass and punching holes in the walls. The bed - and the narrow gap where William now lay hidden - were right beside the bathroom's side wall, which at least offered them protection from the barrage of bullets and bits of plaster and wood shrapnel that had the inside of the room feeling like being caught in a terrible hailstorm.

The guy was shooting _up_ \- not down - and he couldn't see where Dean and William had gone from the doorway, which gave Dean the extra second he needed to collect himself. He sprung off the end of the bed and rolled hard to his right, toward the bathroom door, coming up just short of it. He dove in and, with his back on floor, shot up into the guy's face, nearly liquefying it.

The guy staggered backward onto the toilet, hit it and landed wedged between it and the bathtub.

Dean shot to his feet, holstered his guns, and turned on the faucet to wash the guy's blood off his face. "Fuck," he muttered, shakily. His wide-eyed reflection stared back at him, looking every bit as fucking spooked. The white of his tee shirt was spattered red, there was more running down his arm.

Pain sizzled through his right bicep, just below his shoulder.

His shirt - and the skin below it - were ripped where a bullet had grazed him. About an inch long. Didn't look all that deep, but it hurt like a _bitch_.

He finished cleaning himself off best he could, wiped his fingerprints off the sink, and double-timed it over to the room's front door. A quick squint through the peephole and his stomach sank: there were four or five people gathered around out there, all looking distorted and ghostly through the glass.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, turning. No way to get out there.

William was right where Dean had left him, completely unharmed, crouched beside the bed, intent sharp eyes taking everything in. He rose slowly at a gesture, and picked his way over, grimacing down at Manolo's body.

Dean ignored him for the time being and made his way over to the window. They were on the hotel's first floor - thank _God_ \- and the window was one of those that slid open sideways rather than lifting up to open. It overlooked the parking lot, which at the moment appeared to be empty.

They'd have to climb over some kind of shrub, but at the moment, Dean absolutely did not give a fuck.

They just needed to be out of the room.

He kicked out the screen and motioned for William to follow him, the pair of them quickly scrambling up and over the prickly shrub and into a hot, damp mid-morning. Too open, though, too exposed, and Dean reached over to grab William by the wrist, tugging him back toward the hotel's side door - the one that opened up right into the south stairwell.

On the way up, they passed a doddering old couple and a harried looking young couple with a trip of squalling little brats, but nobody gave them even a second look.

The third floor was full of people, too, as some kind of fire alarm blared and buzzed and flashed overhead. Dean's ears were still ringing from all the gunfire, so the alarm sounded like a whole bunch of flies hovering around a dead body. Still, nobody gave them even more than a passing look as they weaved their way down to their room, William so close Dean caught whiffs of his cologne every now and again.

After what felt like a fucking _lifetime_ they made it to their room. William's hands shook so badly he dropped the keycard and his portfolio both when he tried to unlock the door. Dean bent down and swiped both up, hissing at the pain that licked up his arm as he did. His hands weren't much steadier, but he finally managed to fumble the fucking thing into the lock and get them inside.

William stumbled off to sit, heavily, on the end of the bed while Dean stripped off his gun holster and both of his shirts, dropping both into the open mouth of his suitcase. The first aid kit he'd been instructed to carry at all costs was tucked away in its usual spot inside the front pouch, so he freed it and carried it into the bathroom.

Blood oozed down from the ragged mouth of the injury like saliva from between the jagged teeth of a monster. It really didn't look too awful bad, though, he didn't think. Long, but not all that deep. Jagged on the edges.

Probably needed stitches, but they didn't have the time.

He'd just started to reach for the disinfectant wipes when William drifted in behind him looking dazed, like someone had just woken him up from a very deep sleep.

His gaze homed in on Dean's injury. "You're hurt," he said.

"Yeah, Captain Obvious," Dean said gruffly. Everything still sounded distorted and echo-ey, like they were standing in a big bowl or something. "Kinda noticed that. You didn't get hit, did you?"

"No. Here." William took the wipes and the gauze out of Dean's hands. "Let me do this."

"'Kay. Hurry."

It wasn't the first time William had to patch him up - he'd had to pretty often back when Dean was in training; the guys who'd trained him had been absolutely _brutal_ on him at the end. Now he saw why - and it probably wouldn't be the last.

The alcohol pads burned like liquid _fire_, and Dean had to grip the edge of the sink behind him and bite the inside of his cheek bloody to keep quiet.

"This doesn't look too bad," William said after a second pass with another wipe. "Could probably do with a few stitches, but-"

"No time," Dean said through his teeth. "I know. _Fuck_."

William glanced up quickly, and shook his head. "What. The bloody _hell_. Was that?"

"A trap," Dean said, anger making arrow points out of the words. "It was a fucking trap. No fuckin' security guys, huh? Well, who the fuck were the two assholes I killed? They had fucking AKs. And your good buddy Manolo had a fucking _silencer_ on his gun. That was a motherfucking trap.

"And what's the point of having fucking code words if you're not gonna me when I tell you to get behind me?" he charged on as William stuck a thick gauze pad over the wound. "If I tell you to get behind me or get down, don't just fucking stand there and look at me. Assume I got a reason and fucking _move_. 'Cuz trust me, I had a reason. I saw him reach for the fucking gun. And you hired me to be your fucking bodyguard, which means either you let me do my job or you find somebody else. But don't ever do that again."

Steady fingers smoothed medical tape over the gauze pad. "If it was a trap," William eventually said, "then we need to find out who set it - and why. Manolo was one of Eric's first good suppliers. I don't understand - I can't… It _was_ a trap. He was going to kill me. Us. He was..."

"Yeah. Somebody probably got to him. But we gotta get the fuck outta here. Place is gonna be crawling with cops soon - if it's not already. I think we're okay. Didn't look like anybody really saw us, but sooner we're gone the better." He rotated his arm once William finished with the tape. "Fuck, that hurts."

William gathered up the bloody washcloth, bloody alcohol wipes, and all the wrappers while Dean packed up the first aid kit. Back out in the main room, Dean wadded up all the stuff William took and shoved it into his laundry bag with the bloody shirts. They'd have to find somewhere to dump it, but for now it was all right in the bottom of his suitcase.

After he pulled on a clean tee shirt, he felt a touch on his arm and heard a quiet, "Dean."

Found himself being engulfed in a full-body hug, arms wrapping around his back and tucking his forehead down against the sweaty side of William's neck. He nuzzled in anyway and held on tight, glad to be able to do it, and really fucking glad that they'd both made it out of that okay.

"Jesus _Christ_," he muttered.

"Thank you," William said, cheek finding its way to the crown of Dean's head, "for saving my life. And I'm sorry. I - next time, I'll listen. I didn't see it. The gun. I just saw him reach for something. That's why I didn't move. Next time, I will. _Thank_ you."

"I love you, you asshole," Dean said low and fierce, the words sneaking out of the silent prison where he'd kept them locked away. He'd been fighting to keep them there for months, but the more he tried, the more they wanted to break out. He didn't know if that was really what it _was_, not knowing dick about love, but he guessed was what that weird I-want-to-wake-up-next-to-you-every-day feeling meant. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"We're both rather in agreement on that," was the shaky-sounding reply. "It's words put together, by the way. That's what a portmanteau is. You take two words and you sort of glue them together. Like 'Dean' and 'love'. Dove. It's - silly, I know, but there it is." He cleared his throat. "Which is my way of saying I love you, too, I suppose."

Buzzing both from the fight and from those fugitive fucking words, Dean snorted. "We're fucked, aren't we?"

"Oh, I think we have been for a while, dove."

Fucking _dove_.

"Just don't call me that in public, all right?" Dean grumbled. "Like ever. And I'm not wearing those stupid Speedos."

William made a noise of protest. "How about just for me in private?"

Dean pulled away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh. Mm, lemme think about it. Maybe. Later. We got-" he gestured at the room "-more important things to worry about right this second. Let's see if we can get the fuck outta here without attracting attention. And we gotta find somewhere I can dump these clothes and shit. So, um. Prolly oughtta make some calls, huh?"

"Indeed. Let's get to work."

xXx

Dean shifted and looked away from Seth and Roman for a few seconds as he stretched out. His ass was getting kind of numb. "I was right, by the way. Manolo was working for one of Eric's competitors. Got paid a bunch of money to try to take us out to strike a blow at Eric.

"Point of all that was, I was really fuckin' good at it and I really liked doin' it.

"I killed people, and it didn't freak me out at all. I was, like, pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do that, but it was just like this is - you get in middle of a situation where you're fighting for your life, you do what you have to. You don't even think about it.

"'Cuz I pretty much got indoctrinated into the who world, you know? I bought into the whole idea that Will - uh, that Regal was, um, he'd eventually kinda take over from Bischoff, so I figured yeah, okay. I got his back until then.

"Bischoff was a fucking idiot. Blowhard. Like, he had all these good ideas, but he let people kinda push him around and dictate to much to him. LIke if Regal hadn't been there to kind of stamp it out, he'd have let some guys who turned out to be working for Vince - huh. Wait a minute…"

Memory flash of a small meeting room like the one he'd been in earlier today. Different room, but similarly square and cramped. Bischoff, that leather-jacket-wearing little shit with the _hair_, up at the front of the room standing in front of a huge picture of Vincent fucking McMahon and ranting about how The McMahon Group were trying to fuck over Bischoff's company.

The same goddamn Vince McMahon with the Grand Canyon cleft in his chin and blowhard face.

"What the _fuck_?" he muttered at his hands.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

"Dean?" Seth's voice, just managing to break in above the swirling shitstorm in Dean's head. "What's wrong?"

"Fucking Vince McMahon," Dean said, looking up into concerned dark eyes and intent gray ones. "I - you gotta be fucking kidding me." He scrubbed a hand over his chin. "There's no fucking way. So, one of Eric Bischoff's, like, chief competitors around that time was Vince McMahon. _This_ Vince. The McMahon Group. The, you know, the guy _we_ work for? Him and Bischoff were scrapping for territory - fighting over suppliers, trying to get control of the New York market, trying to get in with the big global crime organizations and shit. And - holy _fuck_. It's the same guy. Like, me and Regal were kept really far away from anything to do with those guys - especially, you know, fighting and shit on the ground that Bischoff's people did, but - yeah. I saw pictures. Same fuckin' dude. Big Bad Wolf is what we called him.

"And he was getting into, like, way worse shit than Bischoff was. Bischoff was a scumbag, but he drew the line at, like, running hookers or human trafficking. He stayed outta that shit. Which - you'd have thought to look at him Bischoff would be all about that, but he wasn't and I think it was 'cuz he had a daughter he was _super_ protective of. Even weirder, McMahon had a daughter, too - Stephanie - and you'd think he'd be Mr. Respectable, too, but he ain't. Lotta money in, you know, trafficking."

Roman nudged Dean's foot. "Vince does have a daughter, Dean."

"I know."

"But none of this is real." A voice like thunder. Roman-as-Thor again, about to drop the hammer. "What you're saying isn't real. You said that yourself. Vince doesn't have any ties to any of that underground shit."

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, Rome. Some of this shit feels really, _really_ real. Like, the shit he's accusing Regal of doing - way I got in my head, it was _him_ doing it, and not Regal. And there've rumors for years - _here_ \- that McMahon's into some pretty shady shit."

"But you said Regal's dead," Seth said. "And he's not. So…" He shifted to his knees and reached over to grab Dean's chin. "Dude, don't get lost in whatever's going on in your head. It's not reality. Reality is, Regal is alive, he's the one doing all the shit Vince says he is, and Vince isn't doing anything but trying to stop him. Okay?"

_Dead._

_Alive._

He wondered what they'd say if they knew he was dead, too.

Seth tightened his grip. "Dean, I know I said we'd go after Regal, but I'm serious - if you can't tell what's real and what's not, then we're - fuck, I don't know. I guess we'll have to disappear. Get you in somewhere. But we're not going after anybody if you're imaging shit like this."

A double-hand push - hard, but not vicious - sent Seth tumbling backward onto the mattress just enough to give Dean some breathing room. "I _know_ what's real," he said. "Regal's alive, he's done some evil shit to Vince, we gotta go find him. Blah blah blah. You know, the funny thing is, that felt like bullshit to me in the meeting today. Didn't you guys - I mean, putting aside everything I've said here, it doesn't strike you guys as really fucking weird that McMahon doesn't know why Regal's coming after him so hard? I mean, releasing financial documents - that's _inside_ stuff. It's personal. So how the fuck does McMahon not know?"

"Yeah, I caught that, too," Seth admitted as he sat up.

Roman nodded. "Yeah, me too. But it doesn't prove anything. Could be he really doesn't know. Maybe one of his guys did something to piss Regal off. As big a company as The McMahon Group is, it's completely possible."

"You'd think he'd have found out, though," Seth said, eyebrows pulled together. "_Somebody_ has to know something. Some random dude off the street isn't going to just decide to go after a guy like McMahon. I can take a look at the file, but I doubt there's gonna be anything in there if Vince himself said he didn't know. Maybe Goat Face will have something for us in the morning."

Dean glanced over at the clock. It was a ten past midnight. "Guys wanna table the rest of the story 'til later, then? Get some sleep now?"

Not that he'd be able to, probably, but his jaw was starting to ache.

"It _is_ tomorrow," Roman said. "But no. No, lemme hit the can first. Then let's have the rest of it."

"Well, gimme some water while you're up, then," Dean said.

Roman rolled his eyes and stood, muscles pulling taut as he stretched out. Long dark hair cascaded over his shoulders like a fucking waterfall as he shook his head. "Get it yourself, lazy-ass," he said. "And get me one while you're up."

"Me too, please," Seth said, hiding a grin behind his hand.

"You're both a coupla dicks," Dean grumbled, but he stood up, popped his back, and padded over to grab waters out of the hotel's little refrigerator.

[_Finis_]


	3. Moving

A/N: Thank you everyone who's been reviewing these so far. Our third installment. When Regal decided it's time for Dean to move in.

**III. Moving**

"Sorry to interrupt," Wade said, rising, "but I've got to, ah..." He hooked his thumb toward the loo.

William nodded and murmured, "Of course."

Once the door clicked shut behind Wade, William sat back in his chair and exhaled gustily.

Found himself thinking, oddly, of their sex life and moving in together:

Dean could be downright prickly when William told him what to do – in and out of the bedroom – but every now and again, generally after an incident like they'd had in Panama, he would wander in wherever William was and he'd sit down on the floor either right in front of or beside William's legs. He'd tip his head so it was resting back against one of William's knees, and he'd remain there without speaking until William was finished with whatever he was doing.

Afterward, the pair of them retreated to the bedroom to have a very different kind of sex to their usual.

The vast majority of the time, Dean was not terribly submissive.

Although he acted like it annoyed him, the reality was, William found it absolutely delightful.

In bed, Dean was adventurous, playful, and wonderfully uninhibited. He vacillated between playing a demanding bottom and a begging one without a drop of hesitation or a scrap of shame. He shared William's predilection for bondage and other less-vanilla types of sex, too, which opened up some really fun avenues for them – avenues that, previously, William hadn't actually had a lover willingly walk down with him.

They really were well-matched in the bedroom.

Despite the fact it was Dean usually begging, William found himself questioning which of them really was in control of things. For all that William knew how to issue a challenge to get Dean to do something, Dean knew how to use his body in certain ways that short-circuited William's self-control and had him caving in to get the boy to _do that again_. And Dean was bloody _ruthless_ about it when he wanted to be – just as William could be.

So it was more give and take, with neither of them ever having complete control.

However, during Dean's strange quiet times, there was no question whatsoever that William did.

It was in these moments Dean became so pliant and submissive that William had a difficult time believing sometimes it was the same young man who never hesitated to say things like, "Hurry up, old man. Fuck, you forget what you're doing back there?"

_This_ Dean let William do things that William ordinarily wouldn't _dare_ ask him to do – for fear of being punched in the mouth.

Everyday Dean would not under any circumstances kneel naked and leashed at William's feet with his hands behind him and his face on the carpet while William stood with a foot across the back of his neck, for example, but submissive Dean did. Everyday Dean didn't like having his head forced down or really even touched while he was giving oral sex (he preferred to be in total control), but submissive Dean allowed it passively – even to the point he was choking. Everyday Dean would have punched William in the mouth for calling him a 'whore,' but submissive Dean himself would say the word readily when commanded. Everyday Dean's eyes tended to flash and flare with challenge when William slapped him or got rough on him during a play session, but submissive Dean's eyes just silently begged him for more.

It was almost as if there was a different man in there.

William didn't mind it, particularly; Dean _that _submissive allowed him to dig into his own need for complete dominance.

Symbiosis, really.

Each of them being what the other needed for that one occasional evening.

Dean refused to talk about it afterward, was the frustrating thing; anytime William tried to broach the subject, shame or embarrassment or something else entirely made Dean clam up.

In those last few months together, though, he finally cracked open and admitted somewhat hesitantly that he sometimes "got stuck" in his head. After close-calls like Panama, he'd start to obsess about the fact he'd killed somebody or he'd think constantly about the worst-case scenario, playing it out again and again to the point it was hard for him to sleep. Letting himself be dominated and used for an evening – giving up control of himself and getting out of his own head – evidently helped pull him out of it.

Usually within a couple days of one of those sessions, he explained, things were back to normal for him.

He hadn't wanted to talk about it because he hadn't wanted to admit anything about the job bothered him.

And, he was at pains to assure William, once he'd moved past the obsessive thinking, he really was fine – no nightmares or weird feelings.

Movement out of the corner of his eye brought William's attention back to the room as Wade made his way back to the table and sat down, drawing the cupcake back to himself.

"I do hope you washed your hands," William commented archly.

"My own germs," Wade said shrugging. "Add a bit of extra spice."

"Oh, thanks for _that_," William muttered.

Wade took a big bite and licked his fingers. "Delicious."

William did his level-best to ignore that. "May I continue?"

"Mm-hmm."

"_Thank_ you," William said primly. "So. We admitted we had feelings in Panama, but nothing really changed for us immediately after that. We hit a particularly busy stretch through the end of 2000 that had us traveling nearly three weeks out of the month. When we were in New York, he usually just wound up staying with me, since he came with me to the office every day anyway.

"I didn't see him leaving to go have sex with anyone else, so I started thinking we were ready to move in together anyway, since we'd managed to spend nearly a full year in one another's company and, aside from some minor fussing and arguments, hadn't really grown terribly sick of each other.

"We had our second incident in Dubai late in 2000. It was a similar situation where we walked right into a trap where a supposed-ally of Eric's had been paid a rather exorbitant amount of money to kill me. They were more subtle about it than Manolo had been, so it was a much closer call than Panama had been, but Dean pulled us both through again and got us home safely.

"A few days later, I decided to ask him to move in.

"It didn't quite go as I expected."

xXx

Half-seven on a dozy Sunday morning, and William was not even a little surprised to find himself awake with cold feet.

Nor was he surprised to find Dean half-lying on him: a burrito de blanket with just a few tufts of shaggy blond hair stuck out of the top and the rest of his body completely cocooned. Dean's head was a heavy but not uncomfortable weight on William's ribs, and the duvet kept his bony shoulder from digging in to William's side too hard.

Last night had been intense, so it was hardly a wonder Dean was wrapped up tight and curled up close.

He'd been _off_, Dean had, ever since they'd made it back from Dubai. He'd been withdrawn and moody, quiet, and restless to the point he wasn't sleeping more than a couple hours a night. Whatever was eating at him, though, he kept to himself, assuring William again and again he was fine, just 'a little run down' from the trip.

But last night, they'd been watching a movie together – William in his recliner and Dean stretched out on the couch – when Dean got up and moved to sit on the floor against the side of recliner. William had lowered the recliner's footrest, and Dean had scooted around to sit in front of it, the back of his head lightly resting on William's knee.

His way of saying _I'm not okay_.

William hadn't said a word about it; instead, they'd sat that way until the movie finished, and then they'd retreated into the bedroom, William leading his quiet-eyed young lover gently by the hand.

Two brutal hours later, they staggered out of the shower and collapsed together on the bed, and in less than five minutes, Dean was curled up against William's side sound asleep. He looked peaceful for the first time since they got home, despite the multitude of angry red marks that stained his skin.

William had found himself quite sated, as if being that harsh had purged something in him as well.

Now, as he carefully stretched out stiff and slightly sore muscles, he was pleased to find that calm lassitude still very much with him.

Lazing about in bed all day seemed like just the thing, really.

Although he'd have to do something about those cold feet.

He lifted his head long enough to discover that the edge of the duvet down by Dean's shins was perfectly accessible, so, moving slowly so as not to dislodge Dean, he eased one foot over through the gap.

It put him at an awkward angle, but it was absolutely worth it for the way Dean jerked the moment frozen toes met warm bare shin.

Dean made a noise somewhere between a startled grunt and a squeal of protest, and lifted his head, bleary eyes appearing over the edge of the dark blue duvet. "Don't. Cold."

William reached over to tug the duvet down off the rest of Dean's face, exposing the front of his throat. The red marks that had been there last night were all but gone, and William allowed his own mouth to relax into a smile. "Whose fault is that, hmm? How is it I make sure to tuck the covers around me so you can't steal them, and you still manage to?"

The corners of Dean's eyes crinkled with amusement as he mumbled, "Blanket Bandito never shares his secrets."

"Will Bandito at least share the covers?"

"Mm-mm. Don't wanna move."

"So you'd rather I froze to death? Then what would you cuddle?"

Dean yawned and settled his head back down on William's bare chest. "Bandito doesn't cuddle."

"You're cuddling me right now, dove."

"Nope. My pillow. Comfy."

William pushed him off. "No blanket for me, no pillow for Bandito."

"Asshole," Dean grumbled.

"Not really," William said, rising. He stretched his arms up toward the ceiling, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders, and then turned to pad off to the loo.

When he returned to the bedroom, he found Dean sitting up on the edge of the bed, the blankets laid out neatly behind him. His back and sides still bore the marks of last night's activities: scabbed-over scratches along the backs of his shoulders, long red weals parallel to his spine, and red marks that looked like they were beginning to bruise on his thigh.

Still, quite a number of the marks that had been there last night appeared to have faded, including the redness around the front of his throat. He was surely going to be sore for a few days – and, indeed, he limped rather noticeably as he got up to head into the bathroom himself – but it didn't look too bad.

William, still very much nude, situated himself comfortably back under the covers, tucking an arm behind his head. Dean joined him a minute later, once again cuddling up close and lowering his stubbly cheek onto William's chest.

"'S Sunday, right?" he asked, yawning.

"It is, yes," William murmured, curling an arm around Dean's shoulders. "How are you feeling?"

"Mm, like I got road rash all over my back. Don't wanna do anything today."

"We shouldn't have to, should we?" William asked. "Everything's already ready for the flight out tomorrow, other than a bit of last-minute packing."

They were off to Atlanta to meet with the owners of a small factory Eric was considering investing in. After that, they were off to Silicon Valley to meet with a handful of tech start-up companies. They'd had pretty good success with the handful of dot-com ventures they'd backed so far, so this sounded like a good idea.

What they needed after the debacle in Dubai, really.

"I gotta run back by my apartment at some point today – drop off a check to the landlord," Dean said then. "I forgot to do that yesterday. She'll have a bitch-fit if I'm late again."

"Mm." _That_ sounded like an opening if William ever heard one. "Or."

Dean lifted his head and looked around, fatigue-glassy eyes narrowed. "Or...?"

William brushed some of the unruly sandy commas off of Dean's forehead. "Or you could just move in here with me. You're practically living here as it is, anyway." It seemed like an entirely practical solution. "Honestly, dove, when's the last time you actually stayed over there? So why spend money on a place you're not using?"

"Uhm." Dean's eyebrows pulled together. "I mean…"

"What?"

"It's - I know I'm not over there much, but I _like_ havin' my own space," was the quiet answer. "In case I wanna, y'know, take someone back there or whatever."

"When's the last time you were with anyone else?" William asked coolly, pulling his hand away.

There was a beat of awkward silence before Dean said, "Well, I mean, it's been a _while_, but still-"

"Define 'a while.'"

"I don't know _exactly_," Dean said, rolling back onto his own pillows. "Like since before Dubai."

William pulled himself up so he sat leaning back against his two thick pillows, the blankets pooled in his lap. "So it's only been me the last five months."

"Yeah." Dean threw an arm over his eyes. "We've been kinda busy."

"You would have," William clarified, "is what you're saying, if we'd had more time. You would have brought someone back there if we'd been around the city more."

Once upon a time, that might have been all right, but that was before nights like last night when things like _you're mine _and _I'm yours_ were spoken with complete conviction.

Before _I love you_ managed to become part of their everyday vocabulary - even if most days the sentiment was more _shown_ in a thoughtful gesture than actually _spoken_.

Sighing, Dean said, "We gotta do this now? 'M really tired."

"We do, actually," William replied, allowing a bit of last night's sternness to creep into his voice. "What's the problem? Has it not been enough? Just me for the past five months - am I not enough for you, then?"

"I didn't say that," was the muttered answer. "Quit puttin' words in my mouth."

"You _implied_ as much, and - look at me, would you? I don't fancy talking to your elbow."

Clearly annoyed, Dean jammed his arm behind his head. His whole face was pulled tight. He said nothing, however; merely glared up at the ceiling.

His own irritation rising, William scowled across the bed. "Are you really that keen on having someone else?" he asked. "Because last night-"

"Don't." Dean cut him off, gaze flicking over. "Don't even start. I ain't talkin' about last night."

"-you…" William let the sentence trail off. "Ever since we got home the other day, you've been doing your utmost to keep me at arm's length - until you practically _begged_ me to beat you bloody last night. Did I not give you what you wanted? I did, didn't I? Was that not enough, then?"

As soon as the question passed his lips, William quite wanted to swat himself upside the head.

The worst part - the _worst_ \- was not that it sounded like the same desperate question so many lovers had asked _him_ before, but rather that he actually _meant_ it.

(_Oh, how the mighty has fallen, haven't you, letting some _boy _reduce you to this? Pathetic, really_.)

But it was just utterly bewildering how he could have stripped Dean's defenses so completely last night, but still be running headfirst into walls like this not even twelve hours later.

_Was that not what he wanted?_

(_Why should you care what he wants? Take what you want._)

For his part, Dean let his head loll back so his attention went back to the ceiling. A quiet sigh preceded an even quieter, "Cut it out. You did. It was. Okay?"

"Then what's the problem? If it's enough, why are you-"

"Got nothin' to do with that." Gruff. Still quiet. Reluctant. Looked as if there was a bit of color in his unshaven cheeks. "Other people. It ain't that. 'M not lookin. Mean, I _do_, but, y'know, just to look - like you do. So quit with the 'enough' shit, all right? You are. You know you are and you know I fucking love you. Jesus Christ."

More relieved by that than he cared to admit, William exhaled quietly and and moved a bit closer. "All right," he said mildly. "What's it about, then? Just tell me."

Silence spun out between them, charged and thick like a build-up static electricity. Finally, just when William was about to speak again, Dean heaved a colossal sigh. "It's a place to go."

"A…?" William frowned. "I'm not following."

"I always end up with nowhere to go when shit falls apart," Dean said, gaze locked straight up on the ceiling. "'Cuz it always does. I ain't sayin' this will, but just in case it does, I got somewhere to go."

"That's-" _ridiculous_.

"It's _true_," Dean said over him. Rough words, like sandpaper gouging deep into wood. There was something almost _bleak_ in his expression. "Shit fell apart at home when I was a kid, I ended up on the streets. Shit fell apart with my friend Dev in Philly, I ended up back on the streets in Cincy. Shit fell apart in Cincy, I ended up sleeping in my buddy Sami's truck here in New York while I was goin' through withdrawals. I never have a fuckin' safety net. I just - crash. Never have shit and never have anywhere to go. I don't wanna end up that way again."

William opened and closed his hand around the edge of his blanket. Words had failed him. Utterly.

Here he went thinking _he _was a pessimist.

He tried and discarded several different questions, before finally settling on, "You really think this'll fall apart?"

"I'm here 'til you don't want me to be anymore," was Dean's answer. "If that's tomorrow, next month, or fifty years from now, that's fine. I'm just sayin' _in case, _y'know, we fight real bad or I fuck up or you get bored or whatever, I got somewhere to go. That's all."

"But you've got money now," William said. He felt rather as if he was navigating blindfolded through a maze. "A _lot_ of money. I wouldn't… Even if things _did_ fall apart, I wouldn't take that from you. You could get yourself another place. You could put the money you're spending on it now into a savings account so it'd be there in case you needed it. You don't _have _to sink it into a place you never go." He shook his head, groping the blanket again. "_Where_ is this coming from, dove? Do you really think-"

"No," Dean grunted. "Look, I'm - not awake enough for this right now. Okay? I'm just - I'm tired. Lemme sleep a while. Maybe we'll talk later."

It was all William could do not to reach over and shake him. "I'd rather finish talking now. Why is this so difficult for you?"

Dean buried his head under his pillows, rendering him little more than a lump under the blankets. "I don't wanna talk, I said." Muffled. Tired. "Later."

William tried several more times, before throwing both hands up in abject frustration. "All right, fine. Have it your way. I'm going to have a shower and eat breakfast. _When_ you're ready to talk, my dear boy, I'll be in the living room."

There was no answer beyond an annoyed grunt from under the pillows.

Disgusted, he rose and grabbed a set of around-the-flat clothing to take into the bathroom.

As he showered, he replayed the conversation, bewildered and quite frustrated as he tried to piece together what the bloody hell had just happened.

How _yet again_ he'd been the one left in the position he'd left so many of his lovers in the past.

_Weak. Vulnerable_.

In the shower, he caught himself rubbing shampoo into his hair rather furiously and had to take a breath. The warm steam actually felt quite soothing going down into his lungs.

_Clearly_ the problem was Dean's, and whatever it was trying to drag it out of him when he didn't want to talk about it was out of the question.

And _if_ it was Dean's problem, then the idiot boy needed to be the one to actually acknowledge it himself.

William would not bring it up or lower himself to ask again.

End of.

xXx

After a rather pleasant breakfast of a poached egg, tea, and a piece of gluten-free toast, William put the newspaper into the recycle bin and found his way to the couch. He briefly entertained the idea of going into his office to go over the contracts for tomorrow's meetings once more, but eschewed that idea in favor of picking up the remote and tuning into some mindless detective programme.

The one that usually played before Raw on Mondays, he thought.

He'd have time to go over the contracts tomorrow on the plane, in any case, and after last night - and this morning - he felt entitled to a bit of mindless vegetating.

Nearly three episodes of the show began and ended before the shower finally kicked on, signalling that His Royal Grumpiness was awake and moving.

William shifted around to settle his slippered feet on the floor as the shower turned off, telling himself that the squirming in his stomach was just his breakfast moving around.

In no way was it nerves.

A fourth episode of the detective programme had begun by the time Dean finally emerged from the bedroom. Like William, he was dressed in his lounge-around clothes, although his were a ragged blue tee shirt and black and white basketball shorts with nothing on his feet, where William's were a plain black tee shirt and black flannel trousers with slippers.

The lad hovered behind the couch for a beat before he finally made his way around and flopped down on the opposite end.

Long legs stretched across the cushion, and bare toes nudged William's thigh. Unusually, the first words out of his mouth were, "Hey, I'm sorry I was an asshole this morning."

William cocked an eyebrow and glanced over. He was surprised to see actual contrition in Dean's expression. "You're actually apologizing? Is the world ending?"

"Yeah," Dean said without missing a beat. Good humor in his eyes. "Didn't you hear? Big meteor just crashed the middle of the country. We're about to get sent back into another ice age. Figured I'd better get that out there before we freeze to death. Or, you know, you stick your feet on me again and _I_ freeze to death."

Huffing a quiet laugh, William caught hold of Dean's foot by the ankle and dropped it into his lap. "I'd be the one to freeze to death, you know," he felt compelled to point out. "The way you steal my blankets."

"We could share a sleeping bag."

"Even if we were both zipped into it, you'd still find a way to get it all around yourself."

"Probably." Not a scrap of remorse in the little smile that accompanied the answer. "'Course, knowing you, you'd just light me on fire or something to stay warm."

"I only do that to my enemies, dove."

"I steal your sleeping bag in an ice age, am I really your friend?"

"Touche." William patted Dean's shin. "And we must be feeling better."

Dean nodded, fingers lifting briefly to push his damp, sandy curls off his forehead. "Sore, but - yeah. Little more sleep and a shower, and I feel like human being again. And, you know, sorry again. For bein' a grouch."

"So can we talk, then, or would you rather not?"

"About the movin' in thing?" He tucked an arm behind his head. "You wanna go all-in on this is what you're saying, right?"

"All-in as in you're here and I'm not sharing you, yes," William said calmly. "You, dove, are mine. End of. No more of this one-foot-out-the-door business. You know how I feel about you. But in case you need reminding, o idiot boy, I love you, and I want you here. Those aren't just words, either. Believe me," he added, squeezing Dean's leg, "I wouldn't be saying all that - any of it - if all I wanted was to bend you over the table and to have my way with you."

Dean's wicked tongue flicked over his lower lip. "What, are you sayin' I'm easy?"

"I'm _saying_," William said, smiling gently, "that you're an enormous _festering _pain in my backside, but you're absolutely worth the trouble. Even if it means I'm going to have to tape my blankets to myself so you can't steal them, I want you in bed with me when I wake up every morning. And, yes, you wanker, I'm saying you're easy." He dropped his voice a bit, letting it shade dark and soft as he leaned a bit closer. "After all this time, this is all it takes to have you ready to let me have what I want."

There was an audible click as Dean swallowed, the sharp jut of his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably. "Helps we want the same thing."

"Case in point." William leaned back, though, into the corner of the couch. "Don't think you can dodge the matter at hand, by the way. Even if - _even if_ \- something does go wrong, you won't-"

"No," Dean cut him off. He held William's gaze. "Forget what I said this morning, okay? I was just - I was in a bad mood, 's all. When I said we want the same thing, I meant _we want the same thing_." He gestured to the room at large. "I gotta pay for another month at the apartment, since we're gonna be gone, but I'll tell her when I go down today just one more month. If you're really sure you wanna be tripping over my shit, I'll bring it over."

"You always pick the strangest times to go insecure on me," William observed fondly.

Dean threw an arm over his face. "'M not insecure."

"He says, after I've practically had to erect a billboard declaring my desire to have him here," William muttered out of one corner of his mouth.

"A…" Slowly, Dean lowered his arm. "I mean, you got quite a rod in your pants, I won't lie, but I wouldn't say it's as big as a billboard, even when you erect it. I don't think it'd fit."

Snorting, William said, "Mm, unfortunately not with your lack of a-"

"Hey! I have an ass now!" Dean sounded almost wounded. "All those squats and shit? All that running? I have an ass. I have a _great _ass. The girl at the gym even said so just the other day. And it seems to keep _you_ happy." He mock glared. "Jesus, here I got it all clean and ready for you as an apology for this morning, and you go knockin' it."

William covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Dean pushed up off the couch in a huff. "You know what, I'm gonna take my ass-less self and I'm gonna go run my errands."

"Oh, get back here, idiot boy," William said, reaching out to hook the back of Dean's shorts. He pulled back hard enough to expose what was, admittedly, a more rounded and defined bum than had been there a year ago. "I wasn't knocking anything. And the girl at the gym better only have made that statement whilst staring at your _clothed_ behind, my dear boy, or we're going to have a bit of a problem."

"I was doing squats," Dean said churlishly, allowing himself to be pulled back down. He hit the cushions with a mildly pained grunt and a wince, but it didn't reach his voice when he added, "She walked right behind me. But I bet she was mentally undressing me."

William slipped an arm around Dean's shoulders. "Probably," he said. "Can't say as I blame her. You certainly have filled out nicely."

"Oh, first I don't have an ass," Dean said, "and now you're kissing it. Make up your fucking mind."

"I just can't win with you today, can I?"

"Nope."

"But you're going to move in, yes?" William asked to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. It was a bit frustrating sometimes, handling Dean's tendency to avoid talking about anything serious. Bit like herding a cat.

Dean swung around to stretch out with his head in William's lap, and now the playful good humor left his eyes. "Yeah," he said, folding his hands over his stomach. "Look, I'm bad at this talking shit, but - you know I'm - that I, uh, love you, uh, too. And if - I mean, long as it's both of us goin' all-in, I guess - why not? Mean, I think you're fuckin' nuts, but I guess - we got somethin' here, don't we?"

William settled a hand on one of Dean's wrists. "Indeed we do, dove."

"Fuckin' crazy, innit?" Impossibly blue eyes found his, clear and bottomless. "Like, I think back to my mom, you know, and it's like all she ever had was a string of fuckin' junkie loser assholes who just fucked her and tossed her aside. And she always chased 'em anyway 'cuz she was so desperate to not be alone, to have someone who could score her a fix. And I'd see that and I'd go, you know, I ain't lettin' anybody tie me down like that. I didn't _want_ that kinda shit 'cuz all I ever saw was shit that ended up with screaming and hitting. To be honest, I figured, eh, I'm good just fuckin' random people. I ain't gonna lie, this kinda freaks me out."

"Why's that?"

There was a long pause before Dean finally said, gruffly, "'S not you should who worry about bein' enough. You're this, like, brilliant fuckin' guy, you're not exactly ugly in those fucking suits, and you could have pretty much anybody you wanted. Someone who doesn't just sit there not knowin' what to say when you're trying to talk your way through a contract problem 'cuz he doesn't know shit about what you're doing. Somebody who knows more 'n I do about politics or art or whatever. I mean, we have our dumb fun and play our games and stuff, but c'mon - that can't be enough for you, can it?"

It was very rare Dean looked as young as he actually was.

A good deal of the time he seemed like he was twenty-four going on forty.

But right now, he looked like an awkward teenage boy who'd somehow managed to land a date with the captain of the cheerleading squad - and had no Earthly idea why.

It was a relief, actually, to hear some of his own groundless fears mirrored back at him.

He offered a smile and squeezed Dean's wrist. "More than," he said. "That 'dumb fun' matters more to me than any conversation we're not having about politics or art, believe me. But if you're that worried about it, pick up a book and learn about it. You're more than capable. But I don't actually care. It's not anything _about_ you I want, dove. It's just you."

One corner of Dean's mouth rucked up. "Okay, that was smooth as shit."

William couldn't quite suppress a smug little smile. "Was a bit, wasn't it?"

"Fucker," Dean muttered, digging the back of his head into William's thigh. "'S the same for me. 'S everything. You. That I want. That - fuck. Okay, I need to go punch a tree or something. Go shoot a gun. Fuckin' feelings shit."

Smile widening, William leaned over to settle a hand on Dean's cock. "Would this gun suffice?"

Dean swallowed. "Fuck _yeah_."

"But we're all settled on this, then," William said, idly palming the rapidly-swelling bulge.

"...yeah. I'm enough, you're enough, blah blah blah, feelings, movin' in. I really wanna suck your dick right now. I'm like _craving_ it. Can I?'

Huffing a quiet laugh, William let his knees fall open. "How can I say no when you put it so romantically?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, dropping to his knees on the floor. "Shut up and take your pants off."

xXx

Wade nearly knocked his cupcake off the table in his haste to throw his hand up. "I really don't need you to go any further."

"I wasn't going to," William said. "I'm sure I've traumatized you with my sex life enough as it is for one evening."

"I'll bloody say," Wade muttered. "So - what, then - he got rid of his flat?"

"Actually, no, he didn't," William said. "He lied to me. Instead of canceling his lease, he renewed it for another six months. We moved everything out like he _had_ let his lease expire, other than the furniture, and he just kept mum on the fact he still had that other place. I think he thought it was just easier that way. He just _did not_ want be without somewhere to go - even if he was almost never there."

Wade's green eyes narrowed. "How did you find out?"

"Well, I'll get to that here shortly, but he and I had a terrible falling-out and he left. When we were finally reunited a year later, I found out he'd still kept the place. He was still living there. And he kept it until he died." William let his head fall back, briefly. "He also told me later that the reason he was so cross with me that morning was that he'd been having bad dreams about what had happened to us a few nights prior in Dubai, and he was still seeing the worst of just about everything. But a bit more sleep and some time to settle back into his own head after what I'd done to him the night before apparently helped him.

"But, in any case, he got himself moved in.

"It wasn't as awkward as I expected, but we were used to living together by that point, anyway, so aside from a few rows about him refusing to hang up his towels or leaving his shoes right in front of the door, it went reasonably well.

"That was, as I said, the end of 2000.

"For all of 2001 and the first eight months of 2002, we were busy traveling and working, seeing the world.

"It was quite grand, actually, to introduce him to other cultures and the rich wealth of living history to be found out there, and he was, as I expected, quite eager to learn it. As much as he enjoyed reading, actually _seeing_ things and being able to touch them really made him come alive.

"Sharing experiences brought us even closer, myself and this former bartender.

"I was actually quite happy.

"And stupidly, I began to think it would last.

"But as I'd soon find out, I was wrong.

"Badly."

xXx

**A/N:** Up next, everything falls apart. Thanks for reading.


	4. Dissolution

A/N: Again, thanks for the reviews and for reading. Everything falls apart.

**IV. Dissolution**

Dean stretched both legs out, one over Seth's knee and one over Roman's, and yawned. "Anyway," he went on, pulling his legs back in, "so, yeah, we did the dumb feelings-and-monogamy thing. Which, you know, I'd just turned twenty-three, so, I mean, I was kinda gettin' - to me - past the age where I was a dumb kid. Mean, shit, I'd lived more in the last year than most people did in a fucking _lifetime_.

"I'd fucking _killed_ people.

"It was crazy to think about it, considered I'd just been working at a bar a couple years before that.

"But, you know, I loved the hell outta the guy, and once I moved in, I pretty much quit lyin' to myself about it. Mean, I still had the apartment, and went back there sometimes when I needed to get some space, but, for the most part…

"He _challenged_ me. You know? Like I said, he treated me like I had a brain in my head, and then he made me use it. We'd go somewhere and he'd show me stuff, and then he'd be all, 'So why do you think _that_ thing happened?' Or 'what do you think caused that?' We'd actually, like, _talk_ about it, which - you gotta remember, I dropped outta school when I was like thirteen, so there was a _shit-ton_ I didn't know about the world. I read books because I wanted to learn, but getting out there and seein' it all - it made me understand.

"It's like a part of me I didn't even realize was asleep woke up and just - it wanted to know.

"Which was cool 'cuz he wanted me to know, so when we had time to get out and see stuff, we did.

"We fought sometimes, you know, like you do when you're around each other all the time, and sometimes when it got bad, I thought, 'Shit, this is it,' but we always managed to pull it back.

"Helped we were busy.

"And as 2000 became '01 became '02, I started to think, 'Shit, this _is_ it.' Like, the sex was still good and we were havin' fun and, yeah, like, I'm thinkin' this could be the rest of my life and I'd be okay.

"Thing was, though, toward the back end of '01, we started running into a lot more dudes with guns than we had before. Like, we had maybe three incidents altogether between when I started and the one in Mexico. Once the one in Mexico happened, seemed like we had one every other month.

"By, like, April of '02, it was up to one every month. Got to the point I was getting nervous about going anywhere. Like, I got Regal a bulletproof vest to wear under his suits and I had one for myself 'cuz - shit, Bischoff kept sending us out, even though me and Regal both were like, 'You don't understand how fucking dangerous these meetings are getting.'

"So, finally, about September of '02, Bischoff finally owned up to why this was happening.

"I came fucking uncorked.

"And I didn't know it, but that was the beginning of the end for me and Regal - for a while.

xXx

"...yeah," Eric Bischoff said, wincing. One hand scratched at the back of his neck. His leather coat squeaked softly. "So about that trip to Montreal. Hey, I have to ground you, Willy, ol' buddy, ol' pal. There's – uh. Something. Well, look, you got a target on your back. It's – uh. It's the Russian Mafia."

William lifted his chin. Said, all ice and iron, "Eric, don't _ever_ call me 'Willy' again. And what exactly do you mean I've got a target on my back?"

"It- look, it's my fault," Bischoff said with an uneasy, greasy little smile. Trying to smooth William's feathers, Dean guessed, from his usual place right behind William's chair. "A while back, I had our guys take out some people I thought were scamming me. I thought they were just some no-name low-level flunkies. Turned out there were pretty well-connected to the Russian Mafia. _Very_ well-connected. And our guys fucked up and didn't cover their tracks well enough, so they traced it back to me. _I'm_ the one they're trying to get at, but I'm too well-covered. So they've been gunning for you. That's why you've been under so much fire lately."

The fucking Russian Mafia.

"Define 'lately,'" William said. His hands were white on the chair's arms. Dean's own were balled up at his sides.

"I think that thing in Mexico might have been the start of it," Bischoff admitted, dark eyes cutting away.

Mexico had been a clusterfuck: William had nearly been kidnapped, but Dean managed to fight his way free of the guy trying to slit his throat and got to the truck before the would-be kidnappers managed to take William away.

Dean had had fucking nightmares for _three weeks_ from that one.

Now, William took a deep breath and settled a hand on Dean's forearm.

Probably knew Dean was about ready to hop over the desk and start swinging.

"That was a year ago, Eric," William finally managed. How he wasn't screaming when the back of his neck had the anger-flush spreading over it like wildfire Dean had no idea. "How in the _name of hell_ is this the first time we're hearing about it?"

Dean decided he didn't give a shit about the answer.

He made his way around the desk and clamped a hand around Bischoff's fat throat, shoving the chair back so it hit the wall. He dug in so hard his fingers went white, so hard he could feel the fucker's trachea squeezing. "That better not be what you're fuckin' tellin' us," he snarled. "Or so help me God I'll snap your fuckin' neck right now, you piece of shit."

In a flash, William was right beside him. He sounded alarmed when he said, "Stop, Dean. _Stop_. Let him go."

Bischoff's dark cow eyes were bugging out of their sockets and his face was a _really_ satisfying brick red.

_Fuck letting go_.

"He almost got us fucking _killed_!" he said, spit flying from his lips. "Again and again! What the fuck did you think you were _doing_?"

He was aware, distantly, that someone - maybe Bischoff or maybe William - was clawing at his forearm to get him to let go, but with his adrenaline spiking and his fucking heart pounding a hole in his chest, he couldn't bring himself to give a fuck.

Eleven.

Eleven fucking times in the last year they'd almost been killed.

_Eleven_.

(_Fucking kill him. Kill the useless piece of shit_.)

"let go, dean. let go. let him go. don't kill him!"

"How can you tell me to let him go?" Dean growled, snapping a look William's way. Rage had him feeling like his fucking skin was on fire. "Huh? _He almost got us killed_."

(_William's wide chrome-blue eyes and blood-spattered face as they just barely escaped one more fire-fight._

_Dean's leg-arm-side burning from yet another bullet-graze. _

_More scars than skin at this point._)

Two hands on his shirt collar and a violent shake that brought his teeth together on his tongue suddenly turned the volume back up on the room.

"We _survived_," William said, pale blue wide and intent. His whole neck was flushed, the skin bright red in the open vee of his yellow dress shirt. "'Almost' is not the same as _did_. We are _fine_. And now that we know the cause, I assume Eric is going to apologize and go to _great lengths_ to ensure our safety. _Aren't_ you, Eric?"

Bischoff nodded so frantically it messed up his hair.

He'd had clawed deep scratch-marks into the back of Dean's hand.

William touched Dean's arm. "Let him go, dove. If you kill him, it'll just bring Security down on us. I don't think you can fight through thirty men with guns, and I don't want to have to try."

Reluctantly, furiously, Dean let go, but not before he gave Bischoff a hard shove to one side. He got right in the guy's round moon face and said in his coldest, most dead voice, "Anything else happens us because of you, Bischoff, and I swear to Christ and all my dead friends I take it out on your hide. You got it?"

Bischoff's watery dark eyes found William's. "Get him out of my sight before I have security shoot him."

William clapped Dean's tee shirt-covered shoulder and offered a brief smile. "No," he said, "no, I do believe I'll have him stay here. To keep the peace."

He did, however, draw Dean away to the other side of the desk, sitting, while Dean resumed his place just behind the chair, a protective hand right on William's shoulder.

They watched Bischoff gather himself, the grinding cough finally subsiding to a wheeze. He was shaking like leaf as he flicked his hair back off his face and adjusted his jacket.

Once he'd had himself together, he shot Dean a murderous look before turning his attention back to William. "I want that fucking psychopath gone. _Today_."

"No," William said. He was so calm he could have been talking about what they'd had for lunch. Dean fucking loved him for that. Just fucking _walking_ it right to Bischoff. "'That psychopath' was just doing his job. He's extraordinarily protective of me. He's why I'm still alive despite nearly a dozen ambushes and deals gone bad. And he's right to be upset. _I'm_ upset. What in the hell do you mean this has been going on for a year?"

One of Bischoff's hands crept up to rub at the red marks on the front of his throat. "We didn't exactly know who was doing it," he rasped. "We were trying to figure it out. You were bait."

"_Bait?_" Dean growled, twitching all over again.

William patted the hand still up on his shoulder. "Easy, dove. No killing."

"Gotta ruin all my fun," Dean muttered, glaring daggers at Bischoff, who visibly flinched. "_Bait_?"

Bischoff cleared his throat. "I knew somebody was after you – us, me – but I didn't know who. We were trying to draw them out. That's why we kept putting you guys out there. We were watching. I didn't want you to know because we were trying to figure out who the hell was behind it. But your little psycho pet there was too damned good at his job – never left anybody alive for us to get information out of. Until the last job. We got one and now we know it's the Russians. We fucked up and killed somebody important to them, and they're trying to take me – or you – out."

Shaking his hair out of his eyes, William said,"And you didn't feel the need to tell us – why?"

He could have touched a pool of water and made a fucking skating rink, he was so cold.

Thing of fucking beauty.

"We didn't want them to know we were onto them," Bischoff finally admitted.

Dean was pretty sure blood was about to start shooting out of his fucking eyes. "Are you _fucking_ serious?"

"That is the bloody _stupidest_ thing I've ever heard," William said on his heels. "Had we known, Dean could have easily left one of them alive _months_ ago and we'd have got to the bottom of all this!"

Bischoff shoved to his feet. "Don't talk to me like that, _Regal-"_

"Oh, _sit down_," William cut him off, a hand firmly clamped around Dean's wrist to keep him from jumping over the desk again. "Is it over, then? The Russians. Now we know. Has the threat been neutralized?"

"No," Bischoff said, still sounding like he'd swallowed a pound of gravel. He walked around to the wide-open floor of his office and began to pace. "That's partly why I'm grounding you. We're gonna start sending other people – people the Russians don't know. I need you on something else. Something bigger."

Warily, William moved to perch on the front edge of the desk, carefully smoothing down the front of his vest as he sat on it. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and straightened his cufflinks, making sure the tiny holes in the tiny brass knuckles were lined up just like he liked them. Dean perched right beside him, ready to jump right the fuck into the fray again.

_Fucking piece of shit_.

Meanwhile, back and forth Bischoff went, so fast it looked as if he was going to wear a hole in the floor. "Look," he said quietly, "you know I got this thing with McMahon going. Well, that's – between us and the ceiling here, it's not doing so hot. Every warehouse of his we take, he takes two of mine. We're losing a lot of guys. I'm having to devote most of my time and energy into placating all of our suppliers and strategizing the best way to keep us from losing more territory. Now that Russo's dead, there's really nobody minding the store on B&amp; A side of the house." He glanced over, and away. "I need you to do that."

William's forehead furrowed. He looked about as confused as Dean felt. "To do...?"

"To run my company while I handle all this other bullshit," Bischoff said baldly. He stopped pacing. The light hit his face just right as he did, and it made him look ten years older, new stress lines and gray hairs showing. "I know you're mad at me and I know we don't always get along, but you're about the only guy here I got knows his elbow from a hole in the ground. To be honest, right now I don't even know what kind of financial shape the company's in. That's how snowed-under I am here."

Dean shot William a quick, startled look, and saw his own unease reflected right back at him: how the fuck did Bischoff not know what kind of shape his own company was in?

Shifting, William said, "Well, I appreciate that, Eric, but I'm not-"

"It's not a request," Bischoff cut him off, holding up a chubby hand. "I'm sorry about the last few months, all right? I am. You're right. It was stupid as hell to keep that Russian Mafia stuff from you. I should have said something. Okay? But, look, while you're here, you'll have a whole _team_ of people dedicated to keep you safe here and at your penthouse. No more attacks. No more ambushes. No more knives in the dark. You're gonna be out of that world altogether. This is going to be straight-up corporate."

Passing a hand through his hair, William said, in that same kind of wary way he did when Dean said something weird, "So by running your company, you mean…?"

"Run the company," Eric answered, like it was really fucking obvious. "Get the books in shape. Find out what our financial picture looks like. Make sure the illegal money is hidden. Make sure we're still compliant with the feds in case we get audited. Start looking for new companies to invest in. Check with human resources to make sure our employees are doing okay. You're still going to answer to me on the big decisions – what we invest in where – but day-to-day is all you. So, I guess that'll make you the chief operating officer."

Dean didn't need to be a psychic to know what William was thinking as he folded his arms over his chest.

It was all over his face: _I don't have a clue how to run a company_.

Not that Bischoff did, either. Dean made a mental note to point that out.

Of course, the bigger question was what would Dean himself do here?

Sounded like they Biscoff was going to give William a security team.

And once William and Bischoff started really getting down to the nuts and bolts of it, it was like they forgot Dean was even in the room. William got that look in his eyes like he'd just had some new puzzle thrown down right in front of him: a kid on Christmas, excited to play with his new toy.

Bischoff and William both sat back down in their chairs, and Dean wandered over to lean back against the door.

No more traveling for work.

That was gonna suck.

Sounded like a huge fucking deal, though, especially with threats of audits and shit apparently hanging over their heads.

That was jail time for a shit-ton of people.

He perked up a bit at the talk of a security team, but neither Biscoff or William even looked his way as they talked about having people watch the apartment, and having building security screen anybody who came in.

_So what do I do_?

Half an hour later, he finally posed the question down in William's office, one booted foot up on the corner of William's desk and William himself now minus his suit coat.

William's sharp fucking eyes landed right on him, just _flaying_ him open to the point he didn't even have to ask why Dean was suddenly wondering what to do now.

"I do believe you'll be heading that security team he promised me," he finally said, the edges of his accent softening. "I wouldn't worry about it a bit, dove."

Dean gave him a narrow look, worrying a hangnail between his thumb as he tipped back a little more in his chair. "I'm not. Just - you should've let me finish the fucking job. Pop his stupid head off."

"And then his security would have shot us both," William said. "It won't be much longer before he gets his, you know. He's refusing to let go of that idiotic war with Vince McMahon. But I suppose that's his problem."

"I guess. So – uh. Promotion."

That earned him a smile. "How about that? Me running the company and you heading up a whole security team. We, my dear boy, are moving up in the world. It won't be long now before we have the keys to the entire bloody kingdom." He got up and made his way around the desk. When he stood in front of Dean's chair, he bent down to settle his hands on Dean's shoulder. If Dean had leaned forward six inches, they could have kissed; and, in fact, William did just that, swiping a light kiss across Dean's forehead. "D'you know, they could give me a hundred teams to watch out for me, and I'd never feel a tenth as safe with them as I do with you. You're the only person on this planet I trust with my life, dove. That will never change."

"Kiss-ass," Dean muttered, warmed and more relieved than he wanted to admit.

"That was quite attractive what you did in there," William purred into his ear. "Going after Eric that way. I so love it when you're on the attack like that. _Assertive_."

Dean, who was just as big a sucker for that tone now as he had been two years ago, huffed a laugh against William's cheek. "Oh, y'want me to be _assertive_, huh? I'll show you assertive." He rose abruptly, shoving his chair back as he seized hold of William's shoulders.

All of a sudden, he was really fucking glad he'd locked the office door behind them.

xXx

"Yeah," Dean sighed to Seth and Roman, "it didn't work out that way."

Seth inclined his head, dark eyebrows lowering. "With the security thing?"

Dean nodded. "Took, like, six weeks to transition. I spent most of that time completely fucking useless outside of Regal's office. I just - I sat there reading books while he had meetings with all these people. We only went somewhere a few times, and even then all I did was carry his fucking briefcase.

"But I told myself it would only be a few weeks, you know? Once he had the run of B&amp;A - that's Bischoff and Associates - I'd make my move into running whatever security team they had for us."

He wedged his thumbnail between his teeth and bit down. "I did think it was a little weird I wasn't, like, training or anything to do that job, though. And I actually mentioned that to Regal, but he was so fucking busy with meetings and paperwork and shit, he barely had time to have lunch with me, let alone really look into anything.

"I barely saw him, even when we were living under the same roof, and that was probably the worst part: he got kind of cranky with me anytime I just poked my head in while he was working, and he was tired all the time so we didn't fool much at all - fuck, we barely talked to each other.

"Like I said, I thought I'd just hang on until he made the move officially.

"They got him an assistant - this dude named Brad - and stuff, so I figured the load would lighten up or whatever once the initial crush was over. I was willin' to wait. I understood.

"Problem was, it didn't get better.

xXx

"Almost immediately, it became apparent I was rather in over my head," William admitted to Wade. "I hadn't the faintest idea how to actually run a company - what I was supposed to do, how to fix the problems people heaped on me, or even how to go about determining the state of the company's finances. Worse, I had no one to ask.

"Eric more-or-less lost himself in his war with Vince McMahon, and none of the remaining executives at Bischoff and Associates had the faintest bloody clue how to do anything.

"I had my poor assistant - Bradley - running around rather like a headless chicken, while I myself worked sometimes fifteen-hour days to try to figure out what we were doing.

"As the day came for me to officially take over as Chief Operating Officer, I was in a panic.

"Worse, I barely realized what a mess I was making for myself at home."

xXx

Half six a.m. on a dark mid-October morning in New York, and William stood not in front of his dresser mirror, but rather his tired-eyed young lover, who was in the process of buttoning and straightening William's vest with sure hands, pausing every now and again to tug and draw his hand down.

William, who was more than capable of doing this himself, couldn't resist a smile as Dean backed away and nodded in satisfaction. "There ya go. Perfect."

"Thank you, dove."

"Well, it's your big day," Dean said, holding up the suit coat. "I'm real happy for you, by the way, in case I haven't said that like a million times. And you look fucking great, if I do say so myself."

"Don't I always?" William said as he slipped the coat on. "You seemed rather restless last night."

A flicker of trouble in Dean's eyes as he looked up, and then away. His fingernails scraped red lines into the tender skin of his inner forearm. "Uh, yeah. Was just - I know you're busy, but I was wondering, like, if you'd heard anything about this security team thing? 'Cuz I haven't. Nobody's said shit to me, if I'm supposed to be working with them or whatever."

As he turned to check his reflection, William shook his head. His hair, which had been trimmed just a bit Saturday, moved just a bit before settling right back in place. It looked good, he decided, and so did the rest of him, in this all-black suit.

The very image of a man in power, even if said man still felt like he was trying to paddle upstream in whitewater rapids.

He'd found his footing a bit with Bradley's help, but still, there was a long way to go.

"So is that a no?"

William glanced around at the question, frowning. "Sorry?"

Dean cleared his throat and plucked his own jacket off the foot of the bed, slipping it on and completely concealing his guns. "I asked if you heard anything about the security thing. You did answer. So I was guessing you hadn't…?"

"No, I haven't," William said, reaching for his portfolio, mind already running through the half-million things he needed to do this morning. "Why would I?" he added. "I've nothing to do with security."

"I was just askin," Dean muttered. "Guess maybe I'll ask around and find out."

Already half out the door, William murmured, "Do that."

In the car on the way to the office, Dean said, somewhat tentatively, "We should celebrate your big day. You know? Wanna do lunch or dinner tonight or something?"

Without looking up from the report printout he'd been perusing, William said, "I've got lunch plans already, actually, and I'm sure it'll be a late night tonight. My whole week is rather booked, in fact. I might not have told you that. I wouldn't bother waiting on me for dinner. I should have some time Sunday, though, so perhaps then. We'll see."

He heard an annoyed sigh, but chose to ignore it.

Once he and Dean separated outside his office, in fact, he barely spared the boy a moment's thought.

He hit the ground running on a day that was full of meetings, a working lunch, and even more meetings. So many people came and went that by the time five o'clock rolled around, he'd started to forget his own bloody name.

Dean stepped in briefly at five, but William was in the middle of a phone call and wound up waving him away.

It was nearing seven in the evening Bradley, his assistant, walked in with a cardboard box.

Bradley Maddox was a model handsome young thing, well-built with thick curly dark hair, blue eyes, plump lips, and a wonderfully round bum. He had a habit of wearing tight slacks and dress shirts that showed off his compact, muscular body. More than once William caught himself staring when Bradley bent down to pick something up.

He was quite good at his job, Bradley. He was efficient, if a touch on the quiet side, but quite thorough.

William stretched out his shoulders and leaned back in his desk chair as Bradley set the cardboard box down onto the desk. "And just what is that, young man?"

Bradley smiled slowly. "Just something to celebrate your first day, sir," he said. "Since you're working so late and can't go out celebrating, I thought I'd bring it to you."

"Well, that's quite thoughtful of you, my boy," William said, smiling and touched. It was, too, and some restless part of him couldn't help observing that it was more than Dean had bothered to do for him. "What've you got for me, then?"

"Well, this for one." Brad pulled out a bottle of rather expensive champagne and two champagne flutes, all of which he set on the desk. "And this." He brought out a rather nice takeaway meal that William recognized as his favorite from the bistro down the street.

"Thank you, lad," William said. "You're too good to me."

As he picked up the champagne bottle, Bradley said, "You deserve the best, sir. I know how hard you work. It's nice for someone to take care of you once in a while."

Something almost coy in the little look Bradley sent him. William found himself smiling all over again. Differently this though, more like a cat smiling at a field mouse in front of it. The old habit, gone dormant but entirely excised, had him brushing a finger over the back of Brad's hand as he accepted the champagne flute.

He didn't miss the way Brad's gaze lingered on his as he did, those smoky blue eyes framed by ungodly long lashes.

But.

_No_, he told himself firmly, and _now_ he thought about Dean, who was doubtless at home waiting for him.

In his defense, he _did_ try, but the champagne flowed freely, and Bradley, it turned out was rather a student of art and fine dining, and chattered away amiably about a trip he'd taken to Paris earlier this year. It was light, nothing talk, but after the day William had had, it was quite nice to sit back with his champagne and just listen.

Especially with such nice scenery to admire.

And he _was_ just admiring it - only looking.

Or he _planned_ to, anyway, but when Bradley, clearly feeling a bit bolder after his second glass of champagne, murmured, "You look so nice in those suits, Mr. Regal," one of William's naughty hands stole out to touch Bradley's flushed cheek.

"You're rather attractive in _your_ clothes, Mr. Maddox," he said with a languid smile. Today, especially, a pale gray dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up, tight gray slacks, and a matching vest. He was the very picture of a young professional, Bradley was, and a stark contrast to Dean, who wore nothing but jeans, tee shirts, and leather jackets. "_Very_ attractive."

Bradley swallowed and leaned into the touch. "Am - uh, am I out of line, sir, in saying as, uh, as nice as you look in your suits, I bet you'd look better out of them?"

"Mm, no more than I would be for saying the same," William replied, those damnable words sneaking out against all good judgment.

And, oh, it was so wrong, reaching up to bring Brad in for a kiss, but it was _sweet_.

Brad's lips were soft and pliant in a way Dean's never were, and there wasn't even a scrap of back-talk or challenge when the lad sank to his knees in front of William's chair and reached for William's belt.

He refused to let himself feel guilty: it had been a long day, and he was entitled to a reward.

(_Dean would have happily done this for you,_ his conscience pointed out.)

It was his last conscious thought as hazy pleasure began to drown everything else out.

On his way home, that was when the guilt finally caught him in its sharp little teeth and brought the reality of what he'd just done into rather sharp focus.

That was new - guilt - and unpleasant.

In the past, he'd never felt a thing when he'd stepped out on a lover, but on his way up to the penthouse, all he could think was he really hoped Dean didn't notice anything amiss, and that it wasn't going to happen again.

Dean was sat in his usual corner of the couch in shorts and a tee shirt, knees drawn up to his chest and his attention focused on the TV, where _Raw_ was playing at a low volume. He passed a hand through his hair as he looked over. "Hey," he said simply. "You're late."

William set his portfolio down on the end table and slipped out of his coats. "I - ah, yes," he said. "It - we had rather a lot to do tonight."

"Good day?"

"A bit chaotic, but that's hardly anything new."

"Mm." Dean gestured at the TV. "Wanna watch? It just started."

"Ah, no," William said. He couldn't bear the thought of being in Dean's company right now, even with the distraction wrestling between them. The guilt: it made him feel as if he was going to crawl out of his skin. "No, I - sorry, I have a bit of a headache after today. I thought I'd take a bath and try to get some rest."

What little expression there had been on Dean's face vanished as he nodded. He said nothing.

On his way past the couch, though, William paused. "Ah, did - you were going to find out something about the security team today, weren't you? Any luck?"

"Yeah," Dean said, staring straight ahead. "Bischoff doesn't want me anywhere near 'em. I's gonna see if you'd talk to him, but I wouldn't wanna impose. I know how busy you are."

If he was a cartoon character, he'd have had a little scribble over his head to show he was disgruntled.

William began to reach for him, but aborted the movement halfway and instead slipped his hands into his pockets. "I'll talk to him in the morning," he offered. "And I was thinking - I'll try not to work so late tomorrow night. If you, ah, if - we could go have dinner. After work. At Le Mer or - oh, I don't know, somewhere you like."

Dean's shoulders hitched in a shrug that was full of resounding indifference. "'f you want."

"All right," William said. There were a dozen other things he really should have said - _wanted_ to say - but the back of the couch seemed like a Great Wall of China between them suddenly. And he was too tired and too thick-headed to put the words together in any meaningful way. "Think about it."

"Uh-huh," Dean muttered after him.

In the bath, with the heat of the water soaking away the day's cares, William couldn't help marveling what a difference three hours made: from feeling like he was on top of the bloody world to feeling rather miserable.

And just a touch resentful: _Dean didn't bring champagne._

No congratulations.

No anything.

Even tonight, he'd barely mustered up the interest to ask how William's day was.

Seemed all he cared about was the bloody security team nonsense.

At least Bradley had acted properly _pleased_ for him today.

So perhaps there was no need for guilt: if Dean could be selfish today, why couldn't William?

_Why can't I?_

With that, and a reasonably clear conscience, William had no trouble falling asleep.

The next day was a tense ride to the office, and work with the accounting department to try to get their books back into some semblance of order. They weren't horrible, but there had been such a rapid turnover of people in the department that no one really knew who was supposed to do what, so half the battle was just to get everyone on the same page and communicating what they were doing.

He asked if they'd mind staying a bit late with him tonight and the rest of the week to try to sort out some of the mess, and virtually all of them agreed.

And, in fact, he'd just sat down to start going through the receivables report when he heard a throat clear in his doorway. He'd sent Bradley off to buy dinner for the troops in Accounting, so that left only one person it could be. "Yes, Dean?" he said without looking up.

"So what'd Bischoff say?" Dean asked.

"About what?" William asked absently, eyes roving a column of numbers that just didn't look right to him.

"The security team?" Dean said. "You said you were going to talk to him. You didn't, did you?"

_...damn_.

William set down his pen and looked up. Dean stood leaning against the door frame, one booted foot crossed over the other, flat-eyed and expressionless. The butts of both guns peeked out from their usual spots just beneath his armpits. Saying _I forgot_ was probably a terrible idea - even if it was the truth - so he settled for, "I didn't have a chance to, no." It sounded a lot better. "I did try to call upstairs, but he wasn't in. I'll try again first thing tomorrow." As he said that, he jotted himself a note and stuck it on his phone. "There we are."

Dean's tongue pushed out one of his cheeks. He didn't look terribly impressed. "'Kay. Take it you're working late again?"

"That was rather the plan, yes," William said. "W...oh." He was really on a roll where Dean was concerned today, wasn't he? Forgot all about dinner, too. "I'm sorry. I've got the whole accounting department working late the rest of the week, and I'd - I really need to be here to oversee the work. I did say yesterday it would probably be like that."

"Okay." Dean pulled in a deep breath like he was about to say something, but let it go noisily as he turned away.

"I'll see you at home, dove," William called after him.

No answer.

He meant to get home at a reasonable hour to spend some time with Dean - and have sex with him - but not long after the accounting people left for the evening, Bradley sashayed into the office with a heated look in his eyes and a bottle of lubricant in hand.

William decided there was no rush, after all.

For the second night running, a feeling of guilt followed him home like a genuinely unwanted dog.

He was weak.

When he made his way into the penthouse, he Dean sat in the middle of the living room floor with all the bits and pieces of his gun spread out on a sheet in front of him. Cleaning them. He did that when he was angry. Some history programme filled the room with a flickering glow. "Hey," he said curtly as he drew a brush through one gun's barrel. Intent eyes gave William a quick flick of a once-over. "You look tired."

William nodded uneasily as he shed his coat. "Another long day."

"Did you get your work done?"

"Ah, we got a start, yes," William replied on his way to the coat closet. "Which isn't saying much. We have a mountain to move, but only a small bucket to do it with, I'm afraid."

Dean gestured at the couch. "Take a load off, then. Tell me about it."

It was merely a request, mild and not at all demanding, but once again William found himself shrinking away from the thought of being in Dean's company. Not because of Dean himself, but rather the possibility that something unwanted - _I had sex with Bradley again tonight_ \- would slip out.

So he shook his head and said, gently, "Sorry, I've got a bit of a headache tonight, I'm afraid. I think I'll have another bath and go to bed early again."

Dean's face shuttered like someone boarding up windows against a storm. "Surprise, surprise."

"Sorry?"

There was a clatter as Dean tossed the barrel and brush down onto the floor. He swiped both hands off onto his jeans and stood up, and as he did, William was a bit startled to see that his hair had been cut down quite short - far shorter than usual. Like William himself these days, Dean ordinarily wore his hair down in his eyes and over his ears. Now it was up over his ears, tight to the back of his head, and came down perhaps an inch of his forehead.

Before William could ask when he'd gotten it cut, Dean said, "I get you're busy - I do - but you realize me and you haven't sat down for dinner or anything in, like, five weeks? And it's been about three weeks since we had sex. Almost two weeks before that. I'm kinda gettin' carpal tunnel from jerking off."

William leaned back against the closed closet door, folding his arms over his chest. Irritation bubbled up from his stomach, displacing the guilt. "I _told_ you I was going to be busy," he said waspishly. He _had_. The last hour of the day aside, it wasn't as if he'd been in sitting on his hands. "It's not going to be forever, you know. As soon as we've got things back in shape, it'll be back to normal. I won't need to work these horrible hours. But until then, I need you to just be patient and bear with me. All right? I'm _sorry_. I'm just - it feels like I've got an entire elephant strapped to my back at the moment, and I really don't need this right now. Now, if you'll excuse me," he added, pushing away from the closet, "I'm going to have a bath and I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, sure, just fucking walk away," Dean sneered. "Go do whatever the fuck you want. It's all that fucking matters around here, anyway, right?"

Pausing again, William looked around. "Is it really so bloody much to ask for you to be patient? I'm trying to salvage a company and keep a hundred people from going to prison. I'm sorry you're bored or frustrated or whatever your issue is at the moment, but the reality is you are _fine_. So just sit tight for a month or two, and things will get back to normal for us. Please, Dean. That's all I'm asking."

Dean gave him a look that could charitably be called _mutinous_, all heated glare and his mouth set in a thin white line, but only muttered, "Fine," as he sat back down and got back to cleaning his guns. "Call Bischoff in the morning."

"I will," William assured him.

At half five in the morning, William awoke thinking it might be nice to have some lazy morning sex, to try to bridge the gap a bit, but when he lifted his head to see how deeply Dean was asleep, he found the other side of the bed empty.

Faint snores drifted in from the living room.

William pulled Dean's pillow to his chest and held it until the alarm finally buzzed to tell him to get up.

xXx

For two solid weeks, Dean poked his head into William's office around five in the afternoon only to be greeted with a headshake and, "He's not back yet, sorry."

Bischoff.

The fucking roadblock standing between Dean and having something more meaningful to do beside sit on his ass reading books outside of William's office all day.

After two full months of doing that, he was about to go fucking _crazy_.

But nobody in Security would talk to him.

They'd been fucking _ordered_ not to by Bischoff himself.

So his day consisted of getting up at six to ride to work with William, sitting in a chair outside William's office all day reading a book, and then going home at five to an empty penthouse.

And it was fucking _horrible_.

People here looked at him like he was some dumb dog who'd wandered in off the street, and just didn't know he wasn't supposed to be there. The security guys at the end of the hallway humored him by asking him if it was okay to let somebody into William's office, but aside from that, they mostly just treated him like another piece of office furniture: something to be walked past and stepped around without giving it any thought.

He'd spent eighteen fucking months saving William's fucking life just to end up a fucking doorstop.

Working at the bar, he thought, on more than one occasion, would have been a million times better than this.

Just _something_ to do.

William never came home before eight, and he always mumbled some lame-ass excuse about needing to work or just wanting to go straight to bed.

Forget watching TV together or talking or having dinner together.

Dean couldn't even fucking _remember_ the last time he'd had sex with anything other than his right hand, either.

"Be patient," William had said, but it almost would've been easier if they weren't staying in the same penthouse.

That way Dean wouldn't have had to feel like a fucking ghost in his own life.

But one night, some two-and-a-half weeks after William took over, Dean's patience gave out.

Ten o'clock on a Thursday night, and two hours ago William had gone straight into his office as soon as he'd taken his coat and gloves off. No "hello," no "how was your day," no word about whether or not he'd finally managed to talk Bischoff into changing his mind about the security thing.

Dean had been reading, and the asshole had just walked on by like he'd been doing every night this week.

At ten, Dean tossed his book aside and made his way into William's office.

Last time he did that - two days ago - he'd gotten his head bitten off for interrupting, but tonight, he didn't care. Tonight, he padded quietly over the carpet, bare feet not making much noise, until he stood behind William's chair.

William was reading something on his laptop screen, one elbow propped up on the desk and his chin in his hand. He'd tossed his black suit coat and vest onto the leather couch in the coner, and now just sat in his rumpled green dress shirt and pants, shoes kicked off beside the desk. His hair looked messy, like he'd been running his hands through it. He did that when he was thinking or nervous about something.

Definitely didn't look like the same put-together guy who, just today, sent a pencil-necked little executive scurrying out of the office like his ass was on fire.

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Dean settled both hands on William's shoulders and began to rub them, thumbs trailing down to work the knotted muscles below either shoulder blade.

Maybe _this_ \- doing something nice - would work better than talking to him.

It seemed to: William leaned back into the massage, head drooping. He made appreciative noise and murmured, "You have about a thousand years to stop doing that."

Dean _hmmed_ agreeably. "You're all tight."

"I'm meeting with the various department heads tomorrow," was the quiet reply, "about reducing our staff by about fifteen percent. It's going to be a difficult day. I'm trying to work out the best way to do it."

"Sucks." Dean moved to massage the back of William's neck. "How many people will that be?"

"Thirty to thirty-five." William tipped his head back, eyes sliding shut. "I'm trying to decide if it would be easiest to take evenly from some departments or cut more from the ones more staff. I'm leaning toward the latter, but I'll have a fight on my hands if I do. It's just that the smaller departments can't afford to lose as many people."

"You're the boss, aren't you?" Dean pointed out. "They gotta do what you tell 'em." He bent down to swipe a kiss across William's forehead.

Easiest thing in the world.

Like he hadn't spent most of the past three weeks sleeping alone on the couch.

William hooked a hand around the back of Dean's head and tugged him down for a kiss that was angled too badly to be anything but sloppy.

But it was a million times better than nothing.

Afterward, Dean straightened and resumed the massage. "Should come to bed. Lemme do this right. Look like you could use it."

"That sounds heavenly," William said. But he cleared his throat and straightened from his slouch. "But I can't just yet. Sorry. I've got-" he gestured at his laptop "-to finish making my decision for tomorrow. Plus I've got to go through a couple contracts to be sure the additions were inserted into the appropriate places."

"Oh, c'mon," Dean said, chuckling. He tightened his grip on William's shoulders. "I got an appropriate place for you to insert _your_ addition. It's been a while. I'm starting to forget what it looks like. You can't spare like an hour? Just one. And then I won't bug you again."

"If I take a break now, I'll be up until three in the morning," William replied, the warmth that had seeped into his voice evaporating. He swiveled in his chair and rolled off to one side to break Dean's hold. "I've got to get this done. If you're wound up, your videos and a wank will have to suffice."

"'S all I've been doin' for five fucking _weeks_," Dean said gruffly. Felt like he'd been kicked in the guts. Again. "Is the world really gonna end if you take like an hour to-"

"_Dean_." William's steely cold eyes were sharp as a couple knives. "Not. Tonight. Did you not hear me this morning when I said I'd probably have time for you this weekend?"

That fucking expression again.

He'd been hearing it for _weeks_.

"You'll _probably have time for me_," Dean said softly, suddenly seething. He backed off a step, hands balled at his sides. The frustration he'd been sitting on made his stomach churn: an open lava pit about ready to bubble over. "'Cuz, hey, I just fucking _love_ sittin' around on my ass until you _have time for me_. That's fucking _great_, William. Awesome."

William slapped a hand down on the desk. "I _told _you-"

"Yeah, yeah, just be patient," Dean cut him off. "Be patient. I _know_."

"Well, if you _know_," William said, his neck reddening, "then what is the problem? Why are you so angry? I _told_ you I was going to be very busy, and right now I can ill-afford distractions."

_Distractions_.

Another fucking kick to the nuts.

Dean backed up another step. "Well, hey, fucking _excuse me_ for bein' a distraction and, y'know, not wantin' to see you burn yourself out here."

William shook his hair out of his eyes. "Stop being childish," he said curtly. "I'm not burning myself out."

"I'm not being _childish_," Dean snapped. "I just, you know, love your stupid ass and maybe want you to stop fuckin' acting like I'm invisible sometimes. I go to the office with you and I sit there doing jack fucking shit all day besides read. I come home, and I sit here doing jack fucking shit. You won't fucking make anything happen for me with Bischoff. So I just sit here with my dick in my hand like an asshole.

"Meanwhile, I'm watching you wear yourself out every fuckin' day, and you act like it's a big fucking inconvenience to you that maybe I wanna, y'know, help you unwind a little. You won't fuck me. You won't fucking _talk_ to me. You don't give a fuck about anything I want. Do you even fucking want me to be here?"

He might as well have been talking to an igloo. "I don't have time for this right now, Dean," he said, ice snapping between the words. "_When I have time_, we'll-"

"Talk about it, yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, disgusted. "When it's convenient for you. Fuck off. I'm outta here."

"Where are you going?" William called after him.

Dean ignored him.

He snagged his leather jacket from the coat closet and slammed the front door behind him hard enough to knock something over behind him.

Didn't give a fuck.

Fucking _distraction_.

What a _joke_.

_Asshole_.

For the first of what would be many nights over the coming weeks, he wound up at CZW. Place was still the same dingy fucking barbed wire and brick wall hole it was when he'd worked there.

Different owner, though, Dean found out. Zandig had apparently gotten into some hot water when a woman got punched in the mouth hard enough to knock out four teeth during a brawl, and he'd wound up selling to DJ - the other bartender.

It was weird sitting on the customers' side of the bar, Dean found, but when some hot young brunette with gorgeous tits and a great smile slid onto the stool next to him, he decided it wasn't so bad.

When she coyly suggested going somewhere a couple hours later, Dean took her out back behind the bar and nailed her, the two of them rutting right next to the fucking dumpster.

Sinking his dick into her tight heat felt fucking _amazing_ after weeks of jerking off in the shower, and he came so hard his knees about folded.

He staggered back into the penthouse half an hour later, and crept into the spare bathroom to shower.

He'd cheated, but so fucking what?

If William wasn't going to give him what he wanted, then he was just going to have to go get it somewhere else.

xXx

"And I did," Dean admitted, glancing at Seth and Roman in turn. "Got to be a thing. I'd leave 'work' at five and head to the bar until one or two in the morning most nights. Screw whoever I wanted. Stagger home shitfaced.

"The only time me and Regal ever talked was when he'd jump my shit about how much I was drinking."

xXx

William shook his head. "It was - alarming, to say the least," he said, "just how quickly he went from having a beer or two in the evening to drinking himself into a stupor nearly every night.

"We fought about that rather bitterly.

"I almost threw him out on his ear on several occasions."

xXx

"I almost left," Dean said, passing a hand over the comforter. "Prolly should've.

"But I didn't.

"I stayed.

"Part of me was like getting mad at myself for not being able to just be patient like he wanted me to. That part of me kept saying, 'Just hang in there and wait. It'll get better.' But the impatient part of me was like, 'I'm bored, I'm lonely, and I'm fucking horny, and if William isn't going to do anything about it, then I'm going to find someone who will.'

"So I did both. I didn't leave, but I wasn't being patient like he wanted me to."

xXx

"I knew it was just a rough patch," William told Wade, "so I decided not to make him go.

"It's so frustrating to me now to look back at it because in hindsight, the answer was simple: a bit of time set aside for him every day, and I should have put my foot down with Eric.

"But he told he didn't want Dean - my 'pet psycho' - anywhere near my security team, and I didn't really know what else I could do for him. I wanted him nearby because I felt safer having him there, but at the same time, I knew exactly how miserable he was.

"Here was a lad who'd never been able to sit still and keep quiet a day in his life being told to sit still and keep quiet." Sighing, he shook his head. "It wouldn't have taken much to fix things. But, at the same time, I felt put-upon as it was. I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, as I said, and I didn't feel as if I should have to fix things for or with him. I wanted him to simply _wait_.

"I didn't even want him to get another job.

"I liked that he was just outside my office door every day, for all that I never paid attention to him. It was a bit like having a good luck charm. I didn't have to worry that he was off doing something dangerous during the day. I knew exactly where he was and what he'd be doing.

"Trouble was, when he started drinking heavily, he tended to not want to get up the next morning.

"He'd often fuss at me about not seeing the point in going.

"I'd practically have to drag him along kicking and screaming.

"I was what _I_ wanted, you see.

"That went on for nearly a month."

xXx

Dean settled back against the headboard again, rolling his neck. "I had enough of sitting around on my ass.

"So one day, like, two or three months after Regal took over, I went to Bischoff myself.

"And that's when everything blew the fuck apart."

xXx

The big, meathead security dude - Goldberg, Dean thought his name was - eyed Dean the way a tiger would eye an intruder trying to sneak onto its territory. "Ams out, Ambrose."

Dean held his hands straight out and stared straight ahead while Meathead patted him down.

"Where's your guns?" Goldberg grunted as he felt around Dean's ankles.

"Down in Mr. Regal's office," Dean replied calmly. "Don't need 'em up here."

Goldberg, a bald slab of a dude with a graying goatee, gave Dean a narrow look. "You try anything funny, kid, I got permission to squash you like a cockroach."

"Not gonna," was all Dean said. The verbal equivalent of a shrug. He wasn't stupid enough: without a weapon, he didn't stand a chance against this guy.

He examined the gold nameplate on the old oak door while Goldberg waited for Bischoff to give them the clear to come in, idly wondering what William would have to say about this.

Dean hadn't bothered to tell him.

This morning, they'd had another fucking argument: Dean had passed out on the floor beside the couch. He hadn't meant to; it was just he'd gotten tired and dizzy after his shower, and had decided the floor next to the couch was as good a place to curl up and sleep as any.

Wasn't like he'd puked on the floor this time.

HIs fucking head was still pounding, and not for the first time in the past few weeks, he caught himself wondering if maybe he was going after it a little too hard.

He couldn't even remember if he'd fucked a dude or a chick last night.

Finally, the door opened, and Meathead followed Dean inside, staying right on his heels as Dean crossed Bischoff's dark cavern of an office and made his way over to the desk.

"Should I go?" Meathead grunted at Bischoff.

Beady dark eyes settled on Dean's. "No," Bischoff replied with a nasty little smile. "If he moves, snap his neck. What do you want?"

"A job," Dean said. "Somethin' besides sittin' on my ass outside William's office. Thought I was supposed to be runnin' his security team."

Bischoff actually laughed him. "Is…? Oh, you're being serious. I thought you were joking." His chair squealed when he sat back. Somehow the sound was less obnoxious than the sound of his voice. "Why the hell would I ever let you run a security team? You're a fucking menace, Ambrose. A _menace_."

Dean counted to ten.

_Twice_.

Thought, _Shoulda let me kill him_.

"I'm not a menace," he finally said. He was really fucking proud of himself for managing to say that calmly. "I'm fucking _good_ and you know it. I kept him alive when you were using us as bait, didn't I? He never got hurt once on my watch. And - by the way, you guys ever get the assholes behind all that?"

Bischoff nodded, lacing his stubby fingers together over his blotter. "Yeah, my guys handled it. You're not running a security team. Why did you think you were?"

"Because William wanted me to," Dean said stubbornly. He folded his arms over his chest. Felt a little naked without his holster strapped in place. "I'm the only guy he trusts to keep him safe."

That nasty fucking smirk again. "He hasn't complained about the team I've got watching you guys. Does he know you're up here?"

Dean shook his head. Told himself not to rise to the fucking bait. "Figured I'd come up here and talk to you, see what you had to say, before I brought it up. Is there any job in Security I could do? Seriously. At this point, I'd check IDs or something downstairs, or clean guns in the cage, or - whatever."

It kind of tasted like shit to say that, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Huh." Weasel eyes narrowed at him. "You willing to do some outside work?"

"What kind of outside work?"

"I need people for my street teams," Bischoff replied. "We're up to our fucking asses with Vince McMahon right now. You heard me tell old Willy-boy we're losing ground. Street teams down there stop that. You take back our warehouses and our neighborhood territories. It's not inside security work, but no way in hell do I put you on any of of my inside teams. It's a street team or nothing. Your call."

Dean gripped the back of the chair in front of him as he mulled it over. From what he'd heard, those street teams were dangerous as hell. He'd overheard some of the guys up on William's floor talking about how glad they were to not be out risking their necks.

_Danger_.

_Fuck_ he missed the fights.

The adrenaline spikes that came in the middle of a bullet storm.

The feeling that every fucking neuron in his body was firing at once - alive and joyous like fucking _sparks_ and _fireworks_ snapping from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet.

He fucking _missed _that shit.

So he nodded. "Sounds doable. Better 'n sittin' around on my ass all day."

Bischoff held up a hand. "When's the last time you were on the range?"

"Couple days ago. I go shooting couple times a week."

Mostly because he didn't have much else to do, but Bischoff didn't need to know that.

"All right, Ambrose," Bischoff said. "If you're sure, then I'll make the call. Tomorrow morning, go talk to Bob Holly. He's the guy in charge. He'll get you set up with a team and run you through what you need to do."

"'Kay," Dean said, tucking his hands into his jeans' pockets. "I can do that. Thanks."

Once again, that greasy little smile pushed up one side of Bischoff's mouth. "I'll say this for you, you got a sack. I like that. Coming up here on your own, even though you know I'd just as soon let Bill there have you for lunch - you got a spine. Now get the fuck outta here. You're wasting my time."

In the elevator on the way back down to William's floor, Dean played with a loose gray thread on the hem of his tee shirt and marveled at how easy that was.

He wished he'd done it a fuck of a lot sooner.

Maybe things at home wouldn't have gotten so shitty.

Only question was, how the fuck was he going to bring this up to William.

Of course, William was tunneled down in his _I'm the only one who matters right now_ bullshit at the office all day, and cut Dean off both times he tried to bring it up. So around five, Dean gave up and decided he'd just wait until the asshole got home tonight to do this.

Probably better anyway - in case there was any blow-back.

To keep his nerves calm and his hands busy, he spread out his cleaning kit on the floor next to the coffee table in the living room, and set about making sure there was not a speck of dirt visible on either of his guns.

Felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, actually.

Just the thought of having something to do tomorrow, something more to look forward to than the plot of another paperback, made him feel _happy_.

A chance to get out and _move_ instead of fucking sitting _still_.

At a quarter to eight, William walked into the penthouse, bundled up - it was a bitter fucking winter night - with his laptop case slung over one shoulder. Just the same way he used to carry that messenger back to the bar approximately a lifetime and a half ago.

He seemed surprised to see Dean sitting in the living room, and, in fact, as soon as he his coat and gloves and everything off, he paused behind the couch. "Night in for a change?"

Wonder of wonders, it was a pretty mild question.

No real ice - or heat - behind it.

He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and his suit looking kind of wrinkled and saggy. His hair was kind of a mess, too, all wind-blown and sticking up weird on one side.

From his place on the sheet, Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said, sliding his now-clean gun back into its holster. "Startin' a new job tomorrow, so I figured I'd better not show up hungover."

At the words _new job_, William went pretty still. His eyebrows went up in silent question.

"I'm kinda over sittin' around with nothing to do," Dean said, shrugging. "So I went to talk to Bischoff today. He said I'm not allowed to be in-house security, but he's got room on his street teams. Figure it's better than nothing doing anything at all, so, uh. Yeah. I start tomorrow."

Clouds rolled across William's face as he frowned. "You sitting outside my office is you doing something," he said. "It keeps us both safe and lets me know you're not in any danger. Believe me, that's doing a lot for me."

"Well, it's not doing shit for me," Dean said, fighting not to yell. "I've been sittin' there every fuckin' day for _months_, and it's a complete fuckin' waste of my time. You don't need me. You got a whole fuckin' _floor_ full of security to keep you safe. Plus, Bischoff told me they got whoever was comin' after us, so there prolly isn't even really a _need_ for that much security anymore."

"Oh, he told you that, did he?" Acidly. He looked - and sounded - like he'd just eaten a big old chunk of lemon. "You don't know Eric, so I suppose you can be forgiven, but he's a bloody liar. They _haven't_ gotten them. He told me that himself just a week ago. The leads they thought they had dried up. We just haven't been attacked recently. _My_ thinking is because we've lost almost half of our street territory thanks to Eric's ridiculous war. We're not big enough. But no," he added, shaking his hair back off his forehead, "no, we never 'got them.' He was lying to you."

Dean tossed his holster aside and stood up. "Whatever," he said. "That's not the point. Point is, he said I could be on one of the street teams. So I'm gonna do it."

William pulled himself up to his full height - King of fucking Spades - and said, "No, you're not."

"The fuck I'm not," Dean said, scratching his shoulder. "I'm not spending one more fucking day sitting outside your office. I'm done. One more day, I'm gonna fuckin' go postal. Okay? I feel like I got fucking _bugs_ crawling under my skin. I gotta move. I can't fucking _sit_."

"Yes, you can," William said. Ice between the words again. "You can, and you will. You mightn't like it, but you're _safe_ there. I know where you are and I know you're not in trouble. _That_, my dear boy, is what's important: I don't have to spend my days worrying. With everything else I've got on my plate-"

"I don't give a _shit_ about what you got on your plate!" Dean snapped. "I am _so fucking sick_ of hearing about how busy you are and how you don't have time and how much of a load you're carrying. This ain't about _you_ and what you want. It's about _me_ and what I fucking _need_. My whole last like three months have been about nothing but you and what you want-"

"Oh, really?" William cut him off. "So you staggering in _blind drunk_ at two in the morning - that's about what _I_ want, is it? Funny, that. I seem to recall telling you _not_ to go out drinking."

Dean flung a hand in the air. "I wouldn't need to go out to the fucking bar if you'd give me the time of fucking day once in a while. 'Just be patient. Just be patient.' I fucking _have_ been. And I'm sorry, but I'm fucking sick to _death_ of you walking right by me when you get home like I'm not even in the fucking room. I get you're busy, but I'm still here. You can't just fucking shove me in the corner and expect me to be fucking happy about it.

"And don't fucking give me that 'I'm carrying the fucking weight of the world on my shoulders' shit." He wasn't quite yelling, but he could hear his words echoing off the walls, boiling back at him with every ounce of pent-up frustration he'd accumulated over the past three months. "'Cuz you're not. You could fucking _find_ an hour a day to sit and talk to me or have sex with me, to unwind for your own fucking mental health, but no. You fucking _won't_. No, you're on this goddamn power trip where you gotta have control of every fucking little period on every fucking piece of paper that crosses your desk."

He stopped there, breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest.

William's hands were tight fists on the back of the couch, white knuckles a stark contrast to the black leather. "You know _nothing_," he said. "And I don't need th-"

"You don't need this," Dean cut him off. "Fuck _that_. You _do_ need it. What the fuck happened to you, man?"

"What's happened to me is you're acting like a _child_," William said. He had the same look on his face he'd have had if he'd stepped in a pile of dog shit. "I'm trying to run a company, and you've regressed to a surly, unpleasant drunkard of a teenage _boy_. All I've asked - _begged_ \- from you is a bit of patience while I sort out this mess. I'm trying to keep people out of _prison_, and I'm trying to keep you safe."

"I don't need you to fucking protect me!" Dean shouted. "Jesus _Christ_! I'm the one who protects _you_."

"Clearly you do need me to protect you," William snitted, "if you think going on one of Eric's street teams is actually a _good_ idea. D'you know _why_ there are always so many openings on those teams? Because the men on them are _constantly_ being killed thanks to Eric's _monumental_ stupidity. You played right into it."

Dean began to pace the floor between the coffee table and the big TV. "The fuck I did," he said. "I know what I'm getting into."

William lifted his chin. "Do you? So you have a death wish, then? Is that it?"

"Of course I fucking _don't_," Dean said.

Back and forth.

Couldn't think.

Everything was just turning and churning.

"Then you don't take the job on the team," William said. "It's that simple."

Dean shot him a hard glare. "You don't fucking tell me what to do. You don't fucking own me." He jerked to a stop. "And - huh. Sure is funny, _now_ you care. I'm a fucking ghost around here for three months, and hey, now that I'm deciding I don't wanna be stuck in the fucking corner, uh-oh. Gotta get me back under your fuckin' thumb. That it?"

"Dove-"

"Don't fucking call me that!" Dean barked.

"Stop that!" William thundered at him. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but I've had quite enough of this. I do not need you acting like a child, Dean. I don't. So. Tomorrow morning, you will accompany me to work just as usual. You _will not_ involve yourself with Eric's street team nonsense. You will come home every night at five, and you will wait just exactly as you have been. _When_ I have time, I will come sit with you. _When_ I have time, we will have sex. But _when I have time_. I am _busy_ \- busier than you seem to understand - and I _will not_ tolerate such _disrespectful_ and _childish_ displays from you. You are twenty-four years old. I expect you to act like it."

Dean froze beside the coffee table, stuck in such a state of dumbstruck disbelief that he actually couldn't think of a single word to say.

Had Wil - _Regal_ \- had he really said all that?

Had he?

_You will..._

(_I won't_.)

_You will..._

(_I won't._)

_You will..._

_I won't_.

Would not.

Finally, he lowered his hand away from his shoulder - he'd find bloody scratch-marks there later - and turned to pick his guns up off the floor.

(_I won't_.)

It was like someone had just snapped on a light in a dark room.

Now he could see, and what he saw-

(_I won't_.)

He looked right into Regal's cold pale eyes and said, quietly, "Go fuck yourself."

With that, with his guns in one hand and his leather jacket in the other, he walked out of the penthouse.

xXx

"I kept expecting him to come back that night," William confessed. "I kept an eye out for him, naturally, and I was ready to resume the fight. I was bound and determined to have my way.

"He didn't come back, nor did he come to my office.

"When I returned home that evening, I discovered that his things were gone. He'd left his key. No note. No forwarding address. No goodbye.

"He was just gone.

"I didn't see him again for six months.

"But when I did, he wasn't the same man.

"It was horrible."

xXx

A/N: Couple more of these Ambregal pieces to go. Next up, a bit more darkness before the dawn. Thanks for reading.


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